Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  “Didn’t altitude have something to do with it?” asked Dryden, remembering a piece he had read in a Sunday supplement. “They probably lived in the area of Mount Kenya.”

  Serafin didn’t seem impressed. “It’s true that training is improved in quality if it is done in thinner air. Putting it simply, the heart and lungs have to work harder to provide oxygen for the muscles. Understandably, the coaches fastened on to this as the explanation for the Kenyans’ brilliant running on such a modest training mileage. Since that time, extensive research has confirmed the value of high-altitude training, but emphatically not to the degree that fifteen miles a week at six thousand feet is equivalent to one hundred miles at sea level. No, Mr. Dryden, altitude is far from being the complete answer.”

  “Now we’re round to psychology.”

  A thin smile confirmed it. “You see it, then? The Kenyans were able to run so well because they knew nothing about the technicalities of track or the big reputations of the men they were taking on. They treated their running as a straight competitive challenge, as simple as two boys racing each other to the candy store. You see, there is a danger of too much specialization in track. Athletes believe that by competing with top-class opposition, they will raise their standard, and that is probably true, but they only raise it to the level of the opposition, or slightly higher. By constantly competing with others of a similar standard, they undergo a conditioning process. Running a mile means lapping the track at a certain speed. They believe their training is bringing them to the limit of their physical potential, but really it isn’t. Otherwise, how can two Africans, untrained by our definition, stay in contention with them?”

  “You’re saying regular competition limits an athlete’s aspirations?”

  “Precisely,” said Serafin. “If Goldengirl had joined a track club she would be no worse and not much better than scores of other girls with a talent for running who have rivaled each other on the track since kindergarten. To achieve what we have in mind she has to set her sights much higher. By deliberately keeping her out of track meets we have avoided the pitfall of mediocrity.”

  “Haven’t you denied her something else?” said Dryden. “I thought track was all about tactics and competitive experience.”

  Serafin made an equivocal sideways movement with his head. “One balances these things, Mr. Dryden. Tactics are unimportant in the sprint events. Quite simply, one girl generates more speed than the others. Experience of competition, I grant you, is not so easily dismissed. The stress of lining up for a genuine race cannot be simulated on the training track. But if she is short on meet experience, what has she gained? Like the Kenyans, she is unconstrained in her approach to running, she has been spared the harassment of being known to the press and public, and she is capable when the time is right of delivering a devastating blow at the morale of her more famous rivals.” He brought his hands together. “I could say more about our training methods, but others are better qualified to explain them. Let me tell you instead how we propose utilizing the next two days. Tomorrow, if you are agreeable, we shall airlift you to the Sierra training camp, where you will meet Goldengirl and the other members of our team. They will work through the scheduled events of the training program, and I think you will find answers graphically provided to the questions you might otherwise put to me this evening. We shall spend the night in the mountains, and then on Saturday there is a small meet in San Diego, where you will have the opportunity of seeing Goldengirl’s first appearance before the public. We cannot keep her under wraps forever. She has to produce times good enough to qualify her for the American Olympic Trials in Oregon next month.”

  “Looks as if I came the right weekend,” said Dryden brightly.

  “You don’t think that’s pure chance?” said Serafin, insensitive to Dryden’s irony. “We want you to have the opportunity of making up your mind about the project.”

  “Thanks. When do you want my decision?”

  “By Sunday at the latest.”

  “And if I turn you down?”

  Serafin stood up. “Shall we adjourn to the bar for a nightcap?”

  In the cocktail lounge the party split. Melody Fryer stood at Dryden’s elbow with her back to the others, excluding them. He ordered her a crème de menthe.

  “You know why he didn’t answer your question?” she said. “About what happens if you don’t accept the commission? It doesn’t arise. He’s a positive thinker. He knows you’re smart, or you wouldn’t have the clients you do.”

  “I could be smart enough to see snags,” said Dryden.

  She lifted her shoulders a fraction. “What can you lose? He isn’t asking for funds. You only do your bit if Goldengirl gets to be a merchandising proposition.”

  “It isn’t quite so simple. For a job as big as this you make plans, stake something out. There are any number of commercial tie-ins I can think of, but it takes more than three renderings of the Star-Spangled Banner to get them under way.”

  She held the drink so high that a patch of green danced on her throat. “Explain.”

  “Okay. Let’s say you’re in cosmetics. The Miss Melody range. Perfumes, soaps, creams, the lot.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I approach you with a suggestion.”

  “It’s getting better,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  “To launch a new line. I tell you about this girl who just won three events in the Olympics. I’m suggesting you have a Goldengirl promotion. A triple gold seal on every product she endorses. With heavy advertising, you could move a lot of perfume.”

  “Gallons. Niagara isn’t in it,” Melody said.

  “We draw up a contract. You call in your admen and your market researchers and your design boys. It’s a big launch, so you want to get it right. But a campaign on this scale takes weeks, months, to set up. While your artists are creating beautiful packages, the public are forgetting about the Olympics. It’s all in the timing, you see? As this is a one-time thing, the launch wants to be reasonably soon after she hits the headlines, otherwise you’ve lost the impact.”

  “So it means selling the idea in advance,” said Melody. “That’s no problem. To be realistic, we can’t keep this secret after the Olympic team is chosen.”

  Dryden smiled into his glass. “To be realistic, it’s a secret nobody’s going to believe.”

  She leaned toward him, chiding him with an exaggerated pout. “Come, Jack Dryden! You must have some commercial contacts who’ll take your word that this is for real. If you believe in it yourself, you can convince anyone.” She flicked her eyes over him speculatively. “I figure you should know a little about the art of persuasion.”

  He gave her a level look. “Thanks. I’m saving it for Dr. Serafin.”

  She shook her head. “You won’t shake him, lover boy. Haven’t you noticed? He’s got a fixation. You’re the guy he needs for this operation, so you’re hired. Right now he could give you a rundown on every working part of your organization. He knows your clients, your contracts, your turnover, item by item. He knows exactly where the consortium can exert muscle if it needs to. Take my advice. You have two ways of handling this. You can take the job on his terms. Or you can move out of here tonight, sell out your business and get the hell out of America.” She smiled and moved a strand of hair off her forehead. “I hope you won’t. I could use a little conversation now and then.”

  Chapter 5

  A lake several miles wide ended the symmetry of cabbages, olives and alfalfa. The Jet Ranger’s engine sounded a higher note, and a herringbone pattern was churned on the water twenty feet below. Ahead ranged the National Forest, where the westerlies of California are wrung dry by the towering Sierras. No more cabbages, railroad junctions, elevators, silver refrigeration plants. The San Joaquin Valley lay behind them.

  Dryden, seated at the rear of the cockpit next to Valenti, leaned forward, trying to orient himself. They were cruising at 120 over sequoias and Douglas firs, following the course of a
river through a precipitous gorge, the helicopter’s shadow picked out on the dead-still foliage. Soon they were compelled to rise almost vertically up the face of a cataract to the mirror surfaces of a glacial lake.

  There the pilot left the river route. Dryden sat back. Without a contour map it was impossible to follow the Jet Ranger’s tangential progress into the mountains, except that the direction was generally northward. Somewhere ahead was Mount Whitney, over 14,400 feet in height, the tallest point in the state. Through the windshield each peak looked like Everest.

  They had taken off from Cambria at one, after an early lunch. Dick Armitage had seen them off, excusing himself from the trip to put in some practice for Wimbledon. He had tried to explain the conflict he felt on account of his obligations as host. Dryden had cynically counted the seats in the Jet Ranger. Armitage had never been scheduled to join them.

  For Dryden, the decision to join the flight was practical. Not because of what Melody had said, which revealed more about the kind of books she read than anything else, but because the showdown with the consortium had to wait. This required a cool approach. If he went along with them, looked at what they had to show him, and turned the project down from an informed standpoint, it would cause the least difficulty all round.

  They must have traveled forty minutes among the peaks when Melody, on Valenti’s left, pointed ahead, along a narrow valley, to the first sign of habitation in miles, a filiform column of blue smoke rising perhaps a hundred feet before dispersing in the thin air. The pilot took them low in that direction over the conifers.

  A clearing appeared, about two hundred yards square. At the rear end a number of timber buildings were sited, some two-storied and large enough to have a communal function. The entire compound was surrounded by a tall fence. The open ground beyond the buildings formed a generous landing area. A second helicopter, a small Sikorsky, was already down there. Making a steep approach, the pilot dropped the collective-pitch lever to its bottom step and closed the throttle. The time as they touched down was 2:50 P.M.

  A shaft of cold air ripped into the cabin.

  “Coffee first, I suggest,” said Serafin. “We’ll take it in the staff lounge.”

  The exit from the Jet Ranger gave Melody another chance to wobble on the footrail. Dryden turned to help her down. He was rewarded with a gentle nudge from her bosom. “Altitude six thousand feet,” she murmured. “You have to make allowances.”

  “Did you hear me complain?” said Dryden.

  Serafin had turned to wait for them. He was rubbing his hands, not because it was cool. “This place has a regenerating effect on me,” he told them. “I think of it as my retreat.”

  The references to Nazi Germany the evening before must have made a strong impact. There flashed into Dryden’s mind a picture he had once seen of Hitler with guests at his “Eagle’s Nest” in the Bavarian Alps.

  Serafin led them across the compound to one of the larger cabins.

  From the Gold Rush exterior, it should have had a wood floor, bare tables and oil lamps.

  Not, at any rate, a black mohair carpet.

  The place was laid out like a Beverly Hills mansion. Two studio couches formed an angle containing a low, ceramic-tiled table and a Zenith 27-inch TV. The facing wall was taken up by a black Japanese shelf unit incorporating a stereo system and cocktail bar. In a recess to the left was a pool table. Playmates of the Month, in individually lit gilt frames, exhibited their charms at intervals along the silk-vinyl-covered walls. Most agreeably of all, it was heated. From where, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps below the floor.

  Melody was at his shoulder. “With cream?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Make mine black,” said Valenti, in case he was not asked.

  The coffee was waiting on a hotplate, fresh enough to underline the precision of the schedule.

  “You like it?” said Serafin, seating himself near Dryden. “We decided a few comforts were justifiable with staff working up here for weeks on end. I expect you wonder about the power supply. We have our own generating plant working on gasoline. You need heat at this altitude, even in midsummer.”

  “That’s for sure,” chimed in Melody, handing him a mug of coffee. “I couldn’t survive without my electric blanket.”

  “You’d find a way,” Valenti dryly informed her.

  Before she could produce an adequate reply, the door behind them opened.

  “Ah, Peter,” said Serafin. “Do come and meet our guests. Peter Klugman is Goldengirl’s principal coach,” he told Dryden.

  The newcomer approached at a brisk step, heavy on the carpet. He was wearing a Cornell blazer with gray flannels pressed to a razor crease. Large in build, he manifested fastidiousness in a series of precisely defined lines — hair parting, sideburns, blazer edging, the diagonal stripes on his tie, and the set of his mouth.

  “Peter D. Klugman,” he said unnecessarily as he gripped Dryden’s hand.

  “Peter was a track coach on the last U.S. Olympic team,” said Serafin.

  “Sprints and relays,” Klugman confirmed.

  “You’re a Cornell man, I see,” said Dryden.

  “That’s so. Class of sixty-five. I was captain of track.”

  “He should have made the Olympic team,” said Melody, linking her arm in Klugman’s. “Tell Mr. Dryden about your bad luck, Pete.”

  Klugman made a show of reluctance by shaking his head, then went on to say, “I was an AAU finalist three years in a row. In sixty-eight I was clocking forty-four regular, but I turned my ankle in the heats of the final Olympic Tryout. Achilles tendon. Zapped me. That was the year the U.S. took gold, silver and bronze in Mexico City.”

  “Tough,” said Valenti without a trace of sympathy. “So you got into coaching.” He held out a hand to Klugman. “Myself, I’m in pharmaceuticals. Gino Valenti.”

  Before the rundown could begin on the U.S. drug industry, Serafin left them, saying he had arrangements to make. He would leave them in Miss Fryer’s capable hands.

  Valenti took over. “Sit down,” he told the coach. “Tell us how Goldengirl is making out. Get Mr. Klugman a coffee, Melody, and top mine up while you’re about it. What do you say, Klugman? Are you satisfied with the kid?”

  “She’s still mobile,” said Klugman guardedly.

  Valenti wasn’t settling for that. “Let’s lay it out, shall we? Does she have the gold-medal look? That’s what Dryden here needs to know. Serafin gives a great account of her pedigree, but you’re the guy in the know. What it comes down to is, can she run good?”

  “She ought to hold up,” said Klugman.

  “Christ, she’d better!” rapped out Valenti. “I got seventy-five grand on this already.”

  “Cool it,” cautioned Melody. “If Pete says she’ll hold up, that’s fine. He isn’t given to exaggeration.”

  “You can check her out yourself at San Diego tomorrow,” Klugman pointed out.

  “You bet I will,” said Valenti. “I like a pretty story as well as the next guy, but on the day it’s the fastest dame who grabs the gold.”

  “Don’t underrate the story line,” Melody said, handing Valenti his coffee. “Goldengirl won’t make it big just by running fast. You need an angle, don’t you, Mr. Dryden?”

  He was glad the point had come up. It gave him the chance to sow doubts which could usefully surface later. “You’re so right. The news value of a good piece of running is practically nil. Okay, she’s a pretty girl, and that helps a little. She does something extraordinary — wins three gold medals. Great, but in twenty-four hours that story is dead unless something is there to sustain it.”

  “A backup,” said Melody with a pointed smile at Valenti.

  “Okay, okay, so Serafin pitches in with his line on Goldengirl’s background,” said Valenti. “In-depth analysis. Grandmother with her gold medal. Mother’s tragic accident. Great copy. They’ll love it.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Dryden. “What counts commercially, of cou
rse, is that the story matches up to the American dream. You don’t want adverse publicity. To be frank, I’m not completely confident of the value of Goldengirl’s story in promotional terms.”

  “Her unmarried mother, you mean?” Melody inquired.

  Valenti laughed derisively. “That’s immaterial,” he crooned. “These days people don’t give a monkey’s whether your parents did it legitimate. That couldn’t hurt Goldengirl.” He turned to Dryden. “What’s bugging you, then?”

  “I wouldn’t say anything is,” answered Dryden. “Remember, I haven’t joined you yet. If I did, I might suggest you drop the Nazi grandparents out of the story. The girl can’t be held responsible for them, I know, and the war’s been over thirty-five years, but it’s still a sensitive topic. If you’re creating a Goldengirl image, they’re better forgotten.” He might have added a suspicion that Serafin’s interest in the Third Reich was not confined to physiology. For the present, he kept this to himself.

  “Fine, we can ax the grandmother,” said Valenti. “It’s still one hell of a story. The kid from the orphanage: there won’t be a dry eye in America when that’s released. Kleenex should pay us a percentage. You don’t think so? Okay, Dryden, you’re the professional here. How would you package Goldengirl?”

  “Unlike you, I’ve yet to be convinced she is golden,” he reminded them. “No doubt you have the advantage of me, Mr. Valenti, coming into the consortium at the start, but since we’re talking in commercial terms, I like to be sure of the product before I push it.”