Several days went by and still Scott hadn’t heard from the editor about his article. He was surprised because he knew it was good writing and he believed it was a compelling story that would concern American readers, because a lot of the drugs that ended up on their city streets were coming via Italy. So why the delay? Could his editor be on holiday perhaps? But he never took holidays. Were they debating the best way to break the story for maximum impact?
The call came on a Monday evening, just as Scott was about to leave the office.
‘It’s a brilliant piece of writing, Scott. And you’ve obviously been very brave – some would say foolhardy – in your research. But unfortunately we can’t print it.’
Scott sat down hard in his chair, the wind knocked out of him. ‘You’re kidding! Why not?’
‘First of all, the legal team have been through it with a red pen and there’s very little left. You can change the names and disguise them with asterisks but anyone who ever reads a newspaper in Rome would know who you were talking about and that makes it libellous – unless you can prove your allegations, which you obviously can’t.’
‘I’ve just found out that Luigi’s dead, so he’s not going to sue,’ Scott argued.
‘Yes, but the meat of the story is at the top of the tree where the Ghianciaminas are bribing government ministers and you simply can’t say that, can you? They’ll either kill you or they’ll sue you or both.’
‘They might try to kill me but they wouldn’t sue because that would be like putting their hands up and admitting “Yes, it’s us, we’re the crime family he’s talking about.” Don’t you see? That’s the beauty of it.’
There was a hoarse laugh. ‘You’ve given me a few headaches over the months you’ve been in the post, but believe it or not I’d rather keep you alive. I don’t want any of my reporters being gunned down if I can possibly help it.’
Scott cast round desperately for arguments. ‘You have to print it. I’ll resign if you don’t. I’ll walk out, just as Bradley did.’
‘If you walked out I would simply appoint a new correspondent in your place and nothing would have been achieved. Look, Scott, don’t throw your piece away. Save it. Turn it into a book about the Mafia one day. Widen your research while you’re there, and send it out to publishers once you’ve left Italy and are safely ensconced elsewhere. Meanwhile, my Berlin correspondent is moving on this autumn and the job’s yours if you fancy covering the front line of the Cold War.’
That stopped Scott in his tracks. He’d love to be in Berlin, where the government of the German Democratic Republic had started building a second wall several yards from the first, creating a no-man’s land in the middle. But still he wanted his story published. ‘If I can get more evidence against the Ghianciaminas would you print it then?’
‘No.’
‘What if I offer it elsewhere, to a magazine?’
‘I suppose I wouldn’t stop you, even though it’s in breach of your contract. But wait till the autumn and let me get you out of Rome before it’s in print. Is that a deal?’
Scott agreed that it was, but he decided to start looking into a magazine publishing deal straight away because it might take several months to come to fruition. He didn’t have any contacts in that world and was reluctant to ask his father for help. Instead, he decided to go to the Eden Hotel bar and ask among the foreign press hacks to see if anyone could give him a lead. He hoped they still drank there. It had been weeks since he bothered to look them up, but he guessed they were creatures of habit.
There was a surprise waiting for him as he walked out onto the rooftop terrace and called ‘Hi guys!’ to the assembled crowd.
A short, baby-faced man wearing round black glasses turned and looked at him quizzically. ‘Well, he’s a handsome one. Who’s going to introduce me?’
Joe stepped forward. ‘Truman, this is Scott Morgan of the Midwest Daily. Scott, meet Truman Capote.’
And that was unmistakably who it was, all five foot three of him, with his high-pitched, effeminate Southern accent and his pinstriped suit with a silk kerchief spilling from the pocket. Scott was stunned. So Joe had been telling the truth about their friendship after all!
‘Enchanted to meet you, Scott Morgan,’ he proclaimed, holding Scott’s hand for much longer than was comfortable.
Truman continued relating an anecdote he had been in the midst of before Scott arrived. ‘Poor Elizabeth is simply beside herself with this pesky woman who simply won’t let go. She does a wicked imitation of her, by the way. “Rich-ard, come and take the trash out, Rich-ard.”’ He adopted a falsetto that came out as a squeak. ‘She called me and said, “Come to Rome, darling, and we can do some witchy spells to make Sybil slither back to the rain-soaked mountains of Wales.” So that’s what we’re doing – making spells!’ He gulped the remainder of his drink and called the bartender across. ‘I’ll have a Justerini & Brooks, darling. Make it a big one.’
‘That’s a J & B whisky,’ Joe whispered to Scott. ‘He gets mad if bartenders don’t know it. Luckily this one has served him before.’
‘So what’s the news with you, Spike?’ one of the other hacks asked, and Scott’s nickname was explained to Truman Capote.
‘Have you been spiked recently?’ he asked, with a lascivious twinkle.
‘Actually, I have,’ Scott began, before cottoning on to the innuendo. ‘Yeah, yeah, have a good laugh, boys.’ He waited till they had stopped chortling before he carried on. ‘I was going to ask if you guys know any magazine editors who might be interested in a new journalism piece about the drugs trade in Italy? My editor won’t touch it.’
‘Drugs? Naughty, naughty. Have you been doing personal research?’ someone asked.
‘I don’t suppose you could get me a little something, could you?’ Truman Capote asked. ‘Some co-ca maybe?’
‘Sure,’ Scott agreed. ‘I’ve got some in my office. We could stop there afterwards if you want.’
‘Isn’t he charming?’ Truman addressed the group. ‘Someone’s mummy taught him how to share. I like this boy a lot.’ He put an arm round Scott’s waist, having to stretch up to reach it. With his other hand, he beckoned Scott to bend down so that he could whisper in his ear. ‘Why not let me read your story, Scott, and if I like it I’ll show it to my publishers? They never consider anything without an introduction but I could press your case for you.’
Scott was delighted. This was the man who had written Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and was generally considered one of the wittiest writers in New York. Having him on his side was bound to help. ‘That would be wonderful!’ he exclaimed. ‘The next Justerini & Brooks is on me.’
Soon the drinks were flowing fast and freely and an argument flared up about President Kennedy’s policy of spraying Agent Orange over the forests of Vietnam, in an attempt to deprive the Viet Cong of cover from which to attack the Southern Vietnamese. One of the hacks argued that it was against the Geneva Convention to fly over someone else’s country and destroy their crops, but Truman Capote was fiercely in support of it. Scott got the impression he had a crush on President Kennedy as he seemed to believe the man could walk on water.
‘Remember Bay of Pigs,’ someone cautioned.
‘Dear boy, the CIA set him up. It was an inside job. Everyone who’s anyone knows that.’
There was no arguing with someone quite so adamant. Truman could quote all kinds of authority, from his friend Norman Mailer to his great friend Dashiell Hammett. He dropped a name in virtually every sentence.
Scott was only drinking beer but he had an empty stomach and somewhere around the fifth round he began to feel sick. He went to the men’s room to throw up and when he came out of the cubicle, Truman was waiting for him.
‘Shall we head off now? I told Elizabeth I wouldn’t be late, but I’d very much like to accompany you to your office first.’
‘Sure. I’ll take you there.’
‘Let’s slip off and leave those deadweights with the bill, shall we? I have a feeling the evening is going to get rather tedious from here on in.’
Scott grinned. ‘Sure thing. Have you got your own car or would you like a lift on the back of my Vespa?’
‘Ah, the Vespa! Symbol of la dolce vita. What an enticing offer!’
As they drove to the office, he clung tightly around Scott’s hips, his hands uncomfortably close to his privates, and Scott was glad they didn’t have far to go. Up in the office, Truman exclaimed over the ingenious design of the cubbyhole, and when he saw the three packs of pristine cocaine, nothing would do but for him to try a couple of lines straight away. Scott refused to join him. Helen’s experiences had put him off.
‘Here’s a copy of my article,’ he said, pulling it out of the cubbyhole. He had made three carbons and sent the top copy to the editor so he still had a couple left. ‘And I’ll write my telephone numbers on it so you can tell me how it goes. How should I get in touch with you?’
Truman held out a white business card that simply had his name and a Manhattan phone number. ‘You’re honoured. I don’t give these cards to many but I believe you have potential, young Scott. I think we should keep in touch. We may be able to work together in future.’
‘How soon do you think there will be any news about my article?’
‘I’m flying back to New York on Thursday and I’ll see my publisher within a week. He can be a little slow but you will definitely hear within the month.’ Truman wiped his nostrils with a finger.
Scott was disappointed. He’d hoped things would move faster. But then, he couldn’t have the piece published while he was living in Rome anyway, so maybe it was all for the best.
‘Don’t worry, darling. You have me as your champion. If you are any good at all I’ll get you into print. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a taxi back to Elizabeth’s. Thrilling as it was to ride on your Vespa, I don’t believe my nerves could stand any more of it. Goodnight, my very charming friend.’
It was only after he left that Scott remembered he hadn’t offered any money for the three packs of cocaine he’d pocketed. Oh well. It was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.