Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  Lee nodded, and moved fast along the row to the exit.

  “We can put it right,” Klugman said defensively. “Dave Robb will have it on film. We’ll analyze it, show her how she blew it. Okay, we’ll put this one down to experience. Maybe we can get her entered for another meet. There’s the South Pacific AAU at the Coliseum next week. I said before, she lacks experience.”

  “Save it,” snarled Serafin without looking at him. “Of course she can’t compete next week, you knucklehead. It would put the whole project at risk. After today — if this hasn’t destroyed her confidence completely — the press will swoop on her wherever she appears. Oh no, we don’t want stories circulating already about her training. We’re keeping that for after the Olympic Trials.”

  “How do you like that?” said Klugman in an aside to Dryden. “I told him the girl needed experience, and now she flops, he shoots off his mouth at me.”

  On the field, four of the girls were trotting back through the downpour to collect their warm-ups. Goldine was leaning on the crowd barrier, shaking her head, unable to absorb what had just happened. An official with a golf umbrella approached her and spoke some words. She started slowly back toward the start.

  “Maybe I’ll take a stroll,” Sternberg unexpectedly announced. He struggled to his feet and ambled in the direction of the exit.

  “Better watch him,” Valenti cautioned. “Wrestling’s a rough sport. His idea of a stroll could include stepping on Miss Winstanley’s foot.”

  “I have the times for that one,” called the announcer. “Jackson eleven point thirty-eight, Winstanley eleven point fifty-four, Serafin eleven point sixty. The anenometer was reading one point three against. So Jackson and Winstanley make the final, scheduled for four-fifteen, fans, and I, for one, am mighty interested to see who’s going to join them from Heat Two. Here’s the line-up …”

  Lee could be seen in the arena helping Goldine into her warm-up suit. The next set of girls were already trying their starting blocks.

  When Sternberg returned, the heats were over and a 1,500-meter was in progress.

  “How was the stroll?” Valenti asked.

  “I can think of more fun-filled ways to pass my time,” Sternberg evasively answered. “What’s next on the track?”

  “Hurdles.”

  “How will I stand the excitement?” He sank into his seat.

  “What a race that was!” the announcer bawled into the public address, as the 1,500-meter girls doubled over to recover. “I’ll give you the clockings just as soon as I get them, but first I have some news for you regarding the one-hundred-meter Final. Your Meet Director, Vince Sapperstein, has just looked in to tell me that at the special request of an AAU official, the number of girls in the Final is being increased from six to eight. Seems the quality of the heats impressed him so much he wants to see every lane in use at four-fifteen. So it’s been decided that the six already due to appear will be joined by the two fastest losers. That’s Edith Mercer, Millbrae Lions, who clocked eleven point fifty-two in Heat Three, and Goldine Serafin, unattached, with eleven point sixty in Heat One. Don’t know about you, but I ain’t complaining at the chance of another look at glamorous Goldine, the novice runner from Bakersfield.”

  “AAU official?” said Valenti. “They swallowed that?”

  “Christ, no,” said Sternberg. “Sapperstein’s not dumb. That’s just the cover. I told him what I wanted, making out I was rooting for Mercer, like I’m her sugar daddy, and asked him his terms. We have to underwrite the club’s debts for the next two years.”

  “We?” said Valenti.

  “It’s a consortium, ain’t it?” demanded Sternberg.

  Serafin intervened: “We’re profoundly grateful to you. Splendid work, Olly! Klugman, get down there and tell them what has happened, in case they missed the announcement. Yes, you can help Goldengirl with the warmup, but God help you if anything goes wrong in the Finals!”

  The rain had eased to a vaporous drizzle when the finalists for the 200 meters appeared. Goldine had drawn the inside lane.

  “That’s good,” Dryden remarked, airing his TV expertise. “With the staggered start, she’ll have them all in her sights.”

  “Not good,” Brannon corrected him. “A dame with legs as long as Goldengirl’s hates the pole position. The bend is tighter on the inside.”

  Jackson, who had drawn lane 4, again took her time coming to the start, but Goldine, too, had delayed, unfastening her headscarf to let her hair fall loose. She shook her head, not in the way she had after the defeat, but sharply, so that the hair whipped over her shoulders and had to be put back. From the way she went to the start, lifting her knees suddenly in a parody of the sprint movement, she was perfectly keyed up, free from the constraints of the heats.

  Jackson pointedly shook hands with the winners of the two other heats before going to her lane. Second-placers didn’t rate such recognition.

  Words were pouring from the public address, but none of the group were listening, or had eyes for any of the runners but one.

  “Set.”

  The shot echoed across the arena as Goldine powered off the blocks in a start so crisp that the first few strides were agonizing to watch in case a second shot signaled she had beaten the gun. Into the turn, she was yards up on everyone.

  “Look at the blonde!” screamed the announcer. “See Serafin go!”

  Eight seconds into the race she had nullified the stagger by overtaking everyone except Jackson, and she was poised to demoralize her. Arms pumping, spikes clawing the Tartan surface, she came into the home stretch emphatically clear, her hair streaming on the wind. She crossed the line more than ten yards clear, snapping the tape with her hands, like a distance runner.

  “I don’t believe it!” croaked the announcer. “Nobody in America can do that to Debbie Jackson.”

  “The time,” Serafin asked. “What was the time?”

  As if he had heard, the announcer called, “Twenty-two point eighty-five. Fans, this is straight out of Ripley! It’s inside the Olympic qualifying time! You have just witnessed the fastest two hundred on American soil this year!”

  Hearing this, Goldine threw up her arms. People were running to congratulate her as if they had known her all their lives — officials, other athletes, several spectators who had climbed the barrier. After a moment, she waved them away and jogged across the field to retrieve her tracksuit.

  “That felt like a straight scotch,” said Cobb.

  Sandwiched between the two sprint finals was a walking race, dubbed by Valenti the 1,500-meter yawn. Before the last girls waddled across the line, the finalists for the 100-meter dash were making them look doubly ridiculous by trying starts at the end of the straight.

  Having dipped deep into his store of superlatives through the afternoon, the announcer was hard-pressed to do justice to what was still to come. “Hope there’s no one here with a heart condition, ’cause this is one that’s guaranteed to give you palpitations. Debbie Jackson, the only girl in California to run eleven flat this year, meets the sensational winner of the two hundred, Goldine — I almost called her Golden — Serafin. Incredibly, Goldine only gets this chance because the line-up has been boosted from six to eight, and let’s offer a small prayer of thanks right now to that AAU official who decreed it in his wisdom. This is shaping up as the race of the afternoon. What do you think: can Debbie hold off Goldine’s challenge over one hundred meters, her favorite event? Hey, we’ve got the sunshine back to top it off. How do you like that? Let’s not forget either that we’ll be watching six other delectable dashers out to prove that what Goldine did in the furlong, they can do in the short sprint. I’ll call them over now in lane order …”

  “What’s the Olympic standard?” Cobb asked.

  “Eleven point twenty-five,” answered Serafin. “It won’t be easy. The wind’s dead against them. Look at that flag.”

  As a spectacle, the line-up was improved by the addition of two extra runners. Again, Goldin
e had drawn a central lane, but the girls on either side were no midgets. Jackson, at far left, shook nobody’s hand this time.

  In the hunched ritual of the start, somebody was unsteady. The starter got them upright again.

  They stepped forward to the blocks for the second time, got set, leaning across the line, tensed for the gun. As it fired, Goldine drove away as explosively as she had in the other final. The gun cracked again. A false start. The marshal spoke to Goldine.

  “There was nothing wrong with that,” Serafin protested. “She has faster reactions than the others. Is she to be penalized for that?”

  “She’ll be disqualified if it happens again,” Brannon bluntly informed him.

  But she was not. If anything, she got away a fraction late. That did not handicap her long. At twenty meters, still carried low by the thrust from the blocks, she was showing ahead, bringing with her the girls on either side in an echelon. The symmetry was short in duration. By midway, Goldine was alone, the others struggling to hold their form, a ragged line of no-hopers learning what it means to be utterly outclassed. Moving with a zest and rhythm rarely seen on any track, she parted the tape, ran on into the bend, turned and held out her hand to Debbie Jackson as she came level. Jackson’s comment carried clearly into the stand: “Jesus, chick. What d’you use for fuel?”

  Dryden touched Brannon’s shoulder. “I’d like to go downstairs before the next race, Elmer. If you’re my escort …”

  In the excitement generated by the race they were able to leave the group without drawing comment. Serafin registered Brannon’s move with a nod and turned back to say something to Cobb.

  “That run of Goldine’s was electronically timed at eleven point zero eight,” said the announcer in a voice that told you he was shaking his head, “and she was hitting a one-point-three-meter-per-second headwind. Fans, give or take a few hundredths, that’s worth ten point nine in good conditions. This afternoon we’ve been privileged to witness a truly great double — Olympic qualifying times in each of the short sprints by this unknown blonde from Bakersfield, Goldine Serafin. I have the feeling this afternoon’s doings in San Diego are going to cause quite some shake-up in the world of women’s track. Incidentally, Goldine entered her name for the last event on our program, the four hundred, but I guess she’ll settle for two finals in one afternoon, which ought to please those girls listed for the one-lap race, due off at four forty-five. Before that, the interclub relay …”

  On the stone steps leading to the warmup area, Dryden touched off the scheme he had worked out. He stumbled, tugged at Brannon’s arm and landed heavily several steps down.

  “Christ. Whassa matter?” demanded Brannon.

  “I missed my footing. Wow, the ankle hurts!” He rubbed it energetically, still sitting on the stairs. “Can you help me up, Elmer?” On his feet, he groaned. “Feels bad. It may be a break. I have a weakness in my right leg. It went once before. Look, I need someone to take a look at it. The medical room’s below. Can you support me that far? You’re a pal. God, it’s like a knife thrust!”

  Hanging from Elmer’s shoulder, he hopped clumsily down the remaining stairs, past the sharp glances of the few girls still exercising in the warmup area and as far as the door marked with a red cross. Elmer pushed it open.

  The meet physician in his white coat was attending to a pretty, dark-haired girl whose foot was bleeding. She was lying on a rubbing table, wearing a tracksuit top and brief scarlet shorts.

  “What’s this, then? Someone else in trouble?” the physician asked, without putting down the swab he was using.

  “Fell on the stairs. Hurt his ankle,” Elmer explained. “Could you take a look at it, Doc?”

  “Be my guest. Would you sit in the chair, sir, while I dress this young lady’s foot. You’re not in severe pain?”

  “Not severe,” Dryden confirmed.

  “She was spiked in the walk,” the physician told them. “Nothing too serious, but it needs cleaning up. You don’t mind these gentlemen waiting here, miss — er —”

  “Gee, no. It doesn’t bother me,” the girl said with a smile in Dryden’s direction. “After all, it’s only my foot.”

  Dryden was quick to see a chance to modify the strategy. “Well, there’s really no need for both of us to stay. You could get a coffee, Elmer. It’s clear I’ll be here a few minutes yet.”

  “But I mustn’t let you out of my —”

  “Hey, you’ll have these people thinking I’m a head case,” Dryden quickly said. “No, I can’t move with my foot like this, but it’s too embarrassing for this young lady having treatment in this small room overlooked by two strange men.”

  “I really don’t mind,” she insisted.

  “So beat it, Elmer, old friend,” Dryden went on. “If you’re concerned about me, you can wait right outside the door till I’m bandaged or whatever. Fair enough?”

  Brannon scratched his head and looked around the room, possibly checking for a second exit, but there was none. Not even a window. To help him reach a decision, Dryden moved his right shoe and sock. The ankle was inflamed from the rubbing he had given it.

  “Okay, I’ll be right outside,” said Elmer, defeated.

  Dryden relaxed in his chair and enjoyed the leg show a yard away. In different circumstances, he might have steered this situation toward a date, because she was quite a looker, with more than a hint of fun in her large, brown eyes, but there were other priorities. So far, his plan was working well. If the girl had not been there, he would have needed to persuade Elmer to report the accident to Serafin. This way was better. It detained him, providing more time to work on the physician.

  When her foot had been lightly bandaged, the girl got off the table, swinging her legs Dryden’s way. “I hope yours is as easy to treat as mine,” she said with a smile.

  “Thanks. Sorry we burst in like that.”

  “My pleasure.”

  It was cruel to pass up the invitation in those eyes. “There’s one thing you could do for me,” he ventured.

  She smiled again. “Yes?”

  But Dryden was a cruel man. “If my friend’s still outside, would you tell him I’ll be a few minutes yet? He agitates easily, and I don’t want him coming in till I’m fixed up.”

  A little bleakly she said, “Okay. Leave it to me. Nice to have met you.”

  When the girl had left, the physician motioned to Dryden to climb on the table. Instead, he moved quickly to the door and flicked down the catch on the Yale lock.

  “Hey, what the hell …?” demanded the physician. He was a young man built like a football player, capable probably of thrusting Dryden straight through the hardwood door if he cared to.

  “I’ll be frank, Doc,” Dryden said. “You’re in a spot and I can help you. Do you know what’s been happening out there” — he jerked his head in the direction of the track — “while you’ve been bandaging that cute little foot?”

  “What is this?” The physician took a step toward Dryden. “You told me you were injured.”

  “I needed to speak to you. You may not think it matters to the meet physician who wins the runs and jumps, but I think you should know that it does, and I’m here to tell you why. A completely unknown girl has just won the one hundred and two hundred meters in times inside the Olympic qualifying standard.”

  “So?”

  “So you as physician in charge of this meet will have certain questions to answer unless you act fast. That girl has never run times like this in her life. She has to be on some kind of dope. Isn’t it your job to test for that?”

  The physician shook his head. “Not a chance. I can’t carry out a dope analysis here. Listen, buddy, this is a club meet, not the Olympics. We don’t do dope tests here.”

  “You could get her to a hospital and test her there,” said Dryden.

  “Who the hell are you to tell me my job?”

  “A free-lance press reporter. If that girl isn’t tested, I’ll wait until her times have knocked the
national rankings sideways, and then sell this story to the Los Angeles Times. I have your name right from the program, I hope — Julius Fishback, M.D.? And you’re refusing to administer a test on Goldine Serafin on the grounds that this is a club meet, not the Olympics? I can quote that?”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Dr. Fishback, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Take it easy, friend. I want no trouble. If you’re telling me you suspect this girl has taken an amphetamine — that’s what you’re saying, is it? — it’s my responsibility to investigate that.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way,” said Dryden. “It’s of no consequence what I think. You’re the expert here. If you exercise your professional judgment to arrange for the girl to go to San Diego General for a dope test, it might just save a lot of questions from the press when it’s too late to do a thing about it.”

  “I follow you. What’s in it for you, then?”

  “If the test is positive, I have an exclusive. I’d like to travel with you to the hospital. Do you have a car, or should we ring for a cab?”

  “My car will do,” said Fishback, “but someone has to detain the girl. If she’s finished her running, she may have changed and left by now.”

  “I think not,” said Dryden. “She was running in the four hundred.” He looked at his watch. “It’s off about now.”

  “The four hundred — on top of two others? She must be doped,” said Fishback. He picked up the telephone. “Is this the stewards’ room? Fishback here — Meet Physician. I’ve decided to run a test on one of the athletes” — he cupped his hand over the mouthpiece — “her name: what did you say her name was?”

  “Serafin,” said Dryden. “Goldine Serafin.”

  “Goldine Serafin. I believe she’s running in the four hundred meters. Would you have a marshal ask her to report to the medical room immediately after it finishes. Tell her it’s routine, but make sure she gets here, won’t you? Thanks.” He put down the phone. “Why the big act about the ankle injury?”