The Plaza was never so pleased with itself. On the night of Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball, it glittered with a kind of aggressive elegance, as if the chandeliers, having overheard the guest list, decided to outshine it. Every social ambition in New York arrived lacquered, pressed, and faintly trembling. Titles brushed against bank accounts, and both pretended not to notice the difference. And then, naturally, came Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow—a pairing so improbable it felt more like a social experiment someone forgot to end. Frank, as subtle as a switchblade, in a tuxedo that behaved better than he ever intended to. He had that look in his eyes. Half boredom and half ownership, as if the evening was a nightclub he might close early out of spite. Compact, controlled, and carrying that particular voltage of a man accustomed to being both adored and obeyed, conversations adjusted themselves. Laughter recalibrated. Even the orchestra, one suspects, felt a slight obligation to behav...