Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  “So who does that leave for flight two, apart from ourselves?”

  “Just Klugman and Brannon, I believe,” said Lee. “Goldengirl traveled with the consortium.” He got up. “They are very likely still in bed. I’d better arrange for them to be called.”

  “Is that necessary? We could tell the cab driver to call back in an hour.”

  “That wouldn’t do,” said Lee. “Dr. Serafin has arranged for you to join the meeting at two o’clock.”

  Dryden got there at two-ten. There was no delay in the flight; the Jet Ranger managed the three-hundred-mile hop along the coast to Cambria in a little over two and a half hours. Time for a leisurely lunch before he ambled across to the casa Armitage had made available for the meeting. The ten minutes after two o’clock had been spent on a second cup of coffee. The consortium could wait awhile. He was playing this his own way.

  They sat around a table in the big studio living room. Serafin grim-faced at the holdup in the agenda. Sternberg in the demanding act of removing his linen jacket with help from Armitage. Cobb politely stifling a yawn. And Valenti lighting his next Panatella from the butt of the last.

  Dryden slid into the vacant chair opposite Serafin. “You were expecting me?” he mildly inquired.

  “At two o’clock,” snapped Serafin. “We don’t have much time. I promised Mr. Sternberg to wind up by three, as his helicopter is coming to take him to an appointment in Las Vegas. Gentlemen, we come to the last major item on the agenda: the management of Goldengirl’s commercial future. You will remember that Mr. Armitage suggested at our last meeting that we arrange for Mr. Dryden to be with us this weekend to acquaint him with our plans, with a view to inviting him to act for Goldengirl after her victories in Moscow. One way and another, Mr. Dryden” — he looked over his glasses — “you must have gained a pretty comprehensive insight into the project. I take it by now that you have come to a decision about your agency’s participation.”

  “You coming in?” said Valenti.

  “Can I get a few things clear first?” asked Dryden. This was his turn at bat and he was not going out with one swipe. “You’re offering Dryden Merchandising the exclusive right to act as agent for Miss Goldine Serafin in negotiating contracts with commercial groups interested in using her name, picture, personal endorsement —”

  “The lot,” said Valenti. “How about it?”

  “Radio, TV and movies,” Dryden went on, “theater and nightclub appearances, books, magazines and newspapers — all exclusive?”

  “You’re the top agent,” said Sternberg, wheezing after the struggle with his jacket.

  “And I have the reputation of my agency to protect,” Dryden pointed out. “If Dryden Merchandising is better regarded by big business than most other agencies, it’s because we have a name for taking one hundred per cent reliable people on our list. No junkies, jailbirds, political extremists — people who could destroy a brand image overnight. You understand that if anything adverse — I’m speaking hypothetically — became public knowledge, my agency couldn’t have anything to do with Goldengirl.”

  Valenti looked suspicious. “What are you getting at?”

  “It’s a simple safeguard,” answered Dryden. “Let’s suppose, to take a wild example, one of you supported some controversial cause — the movement to ban dogs from urban areas, let’s say — and you planned to use Goldengirl as a voice for your arguments. The moment she made these views known, she would be commercially finished.”

  “That figures,” said Sternberg. “I like dogs, anyway.”

  “We understand that Goldengirl’s character must be seen to be exemplary and uncontroversial,” said Serafin, giving no hint that he took the comment as a personal imputation. “Is that agreed, gentlemen? Do we take it, in that case, Mr. Dryden —”

  “Not yet. The timing of the promotional campaign,” said Dryden. “You want everything to be ready to make an impact at the most favorable moment, the peak of public interest, as soon after the Olympics as possible?”

  “That is the idea.”

  “In that case, quite detailed negotiations would need to take place before the Olympics. Contracts would still be conditional on her success, of course, but we should certainly have to talk with business executives at some level prior to the Games. To be realistic, the chance of keeping her ambitions secret after that is nil.”

  “We are resigned to that,” said Serafin. “Candidly, there is no point in trying to conceal her intentions once the Olympic Trials have taken place from July fourteenth through the twenty-fourth. She will then be nominated for three events and must make it clear why she is not participating in the relays. There will be four weeks for your negotiations. Is that sufficient?”

  “It will have to be,” said Dryden.

  “Do you accept the commission?”

  “Hold it,” broke in Valenti. “What’s your percentage, Dryden?”

  “For this assignment, fifteen.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. What does that leave for us?”

  “Eighty-five,” said Dryden. “If it makes the mathematics easier, you can pay me twenty.”

  “Don’t push me,” warned Valenti. “How much do you figure we can hoist?”

  “Provided she gets the three, and is still breathing, something approaching twenty million dollars,” said Dryden. “That’s my estimate.”

  There was a pause for mental arithmetic.

  “I’m agreeable,” said Valenti.

  “That goes for me, too,” Armitage chipped in.

  “We take out the expenses after Dryden’s cut?” said Sternberg, “And split five ways? I make that a little over three million each.” Cobb had taken a calculator out of his pocket. “Check. In that case, it’s okay with me.”

  “Just a minute,” said Dryden. “What does Goldengirl stand to make out of this?”

  “Five good friends!” squeaked Sternberg, convulsed with his wit.

  Serafin was quick to intervene. “Of course, I am making provision for her. For administrative purposes, Mr. Dryden, we shall be forming a corporation to be known as Goldengirl Incorporated. It will undoubtedly simplify your agency’s dealings with us. The board is, of course, constituted by the members of the consortium. My share of any profits that accrue will ensure that Goldengirl has everything she requires to finance her for the rest of her life.”

  “But she isn’t on the board?” said Dryden.

  Serafin shook his head. “Too young. Instead, I propose to set up a trust fund on her behalf. She will get a generous proportion of my income from her activities. After tax, that is.”

  “May I ask what proportion?”

  “It isn’t settled yet,” said Serafin, “but I had in mind at least a third. She will be a millionaire if your estimate is correct.”

  Dryden was thinking fast. He doubted if it would help Goldine materially to join the board. It was better to work through the trust. There wasn’t much room for maneuver with hard-headed characters like Sternberg and Valenti, but he might try squeezing them a little. The best chance of a breakthrough was with Serafin. “I’m mainly interested in the backup the board could give to the merchandising campaign,” he said. “I like the notion of a Goldengirl corporation. That’s good business practice. What worries me a lot is the slice she gets of the revenue. It might create difficulties if the press got to know she had no direct interest in Goldengirl Incorporated. Okay, you have an answer to that in the trust, but anyone sharp enough to find out about the trust is going to ask what proportion of the Goldengirl millions goes into it. On a quick calculation, it’s around five per cent. I appreciate the outlay of expenditure on this project, gentlemen, not to mention the risk you are taking and the long-term planning involved. Unhappily, the press and public won’t, and it wouldn’t be advisable to tell them. They’ll see it simply as exploitation. I make no criticism — I’m thinking just from the PR angle.”

  “You’re suggesting we should increase the girl’s share?” said Cobb, eyebrows twitc
hing.

  “I’d like to see it raised to fifty per cent.”

  The silence this created was broken by Valenti. “What’s in it for you if Goldengirl’s cut is fifty per cent?”

  “No more than if it’s five,” said Dryden. “I’m interested only in what the public is told. A hostile press could hurt the project a lot.”

  “That figures,” conceded Valenti. “We don’t want some wise guy shooting off his mouth in the Los Angeles Times”

  Dryden nodded. “It’s heaven-sent for some investigative reporter out to make a name for himself.”

  “How would you propose that we increase Goldengirl’s share?” asked Serafin with caution.

  “In two ways. First, by abandoning the percentage concept in favor of a guaranteed sum. Let’s be candid — you weren’t expecting me to come up with an estimate as high as twenty million. I could be wrong; this sort of thing is a crap shoot in many ways. But basing it on contracts we’ve negotiated lately on behalf of top-line stars, and allowing for the girl’s exceptionally marketable personality, it’s the closest I can come to any sort of estimate. It surprised you a little, I could see. None of you were counting on as much as three million a piece, or we would never have had such instant unanimity.” He paused, preparing them for his terms. If they were led to expect a figure half as much, this ploy might be successful. “A guaranteed sum, I said, and I would be prepared to agree the same amount for my agency’s services.”

  “How much?” asked Sternberg.

  “Two million dollars each, to include all expenses.” Before anyone commented, Dryden added, “And that brings me to Proposal Number Two. That is, to give the trust a controlling interest in Goldengirl Incorporated by having you, Dr. Serafin, on the board as its representative. You would receive a fee, of course, which we could agree upon with the trustees, but so far as press and public are concerned, you would not be a direct beneficiary. If we raised twenty million in revenue, Dryden Merchandising would then take its two million; Mr. Sternberg, Mr. Valenti, Mr. Cobb and Mr. Armitage would be guaranteed two million each; and there would be ten million for the trust fund. From the public’s point of view, Goldine would be getting fifty per cent of the money. How much of that she was generous enough to give her father would become a private matter.”

  “You’re a smart cookie!” said Sternberg.

  “I like it,” said Cobb, “but I have a query. Without prejudice to your reputation as an agent, Mr. Dryden, what would you propose if the revenue amounted to less than the twenty million you estimated?”

  “I said the figure each of you would receive would be guaranteed,” answered Dryden, “so I was implying that the trust fund would stand the loss, if we call it that. Equally, if the revenue topped twenty million, the excess would to go the trust.”

  “I’ll buy that,” said Valenti. “Two million guaranteed?”

  “Subject to three golds,” said Dryden. He was watching Serafin. The others, he had assumed, would agree; in their world, guaranteed sums in units of a million were more potent than percentages. With Serafin there was a question of status. Would he settle for anything less than his own share? The money was more, but he would have to rely on Goldine for his cut. Was it really the money he wanted from all this?

  “I’m agreeable,” said Dick Armitage, almost forgotten.

  “Very well,” said Serafin. “I think Dryden has a valid point about public interest. We shall not be making any of our financial arrangements public, but if questions were asked, it would obviously look better if the trust fund were seen to account for a sum large enough to satisfy any doubts. With your approval, gentlemen, I shall make arrangements for an agreement to be drafted on those lines. I appreciate your co-operation in this matter. It says much for our unity of purpose that we have reached a mutually acceptable arrangement in so civilized a way.”

  “It’s important that this is formally agreed to without delay,” pressed Dryden. “My participation must be conditional upon it.”

  “It will be done,” promised Serafin.

  “In that case, I’ll get my lawyers to draft an agreement between Dryden Merchandising and Goldengirl Incorporated. It can be done without any breach of security. How do they get in touch with you?”

  “Through my P.O. box in Bakersfield,” said Serafin, handing him a card. “I’ll mail copies to my fellow members of the board here. We can confirm everything when we meet next. I suggest an appropriate venue would be Eugene, Oregon, during the National Olympic Trials. Shall we say July tenth? I can arrange hotel accommodations. I assume you would all wish to be in Eugene for the period spanning Goldengirl’s events. That takes us through to July sixteenth. The Trials follow the program of the Olympics.”

  “I’ll give a progress report on the merchandising campaign,” Dryden offered. “By then, most of it should be mapped out.”

  “But you won’t involve anyone else until after Eugene,” Serafin firmly ordered. “We can tolerate no breaches of security. This will be a solo exercise on your part until mid-July. Is that perfectly clear? Between us, we are a powerful group, and without going into detail I can tell you that any leakage of information about the project would do you and your group of companies no service, no service at all.”

  “I don’t care for threats,” said Dryden.

  “Threats? We deal in facts, not threats,” said Serafin. “And the outstanding fact is that the interest of everyone around this table is served by observing the rule of secrecy. During the weekend, you have heard a number of reasons why we think it advisable to avoid publicity. There is another which has not been mentioned, and that is Rule Twenty-six of the International Olympic Committee — the Eligibility Code. The essense of it is quite simple: to be eligible for participation in the Olympic Games a competitor must not have received any financial rewards or material benefit, except as permitted in certain bylaws.”

  “Hell, they’d need a commission to prove anything,” said Sternberg.

  “That is exactly what they have, Mr. Sternberg,” Serafin acidly said. “Need I say that if Goldengirl were ordered to appear before such a commission, the consequence would be disastrous? We could hire a good lawyer to argue her case, quote precedents, and so on. There are hundreds, thousands of Olympic athletes receiving sponsorship of one sort or another. But the publicity, you see, the private training camp, the personal coaches, the psychologist, would destroy the image we are trying to create. Commercially, it would sink us. And, of course, names would be published —”

  “Okay, okay, we follow you,” squeaked Sternberg. “If we got a fink in this operation, we take care of the problem. I move next business.”

  When Dryden came to load his suitcase into the Excalibur at the end of the afternoon, Dick Armitage was standing there, the look of self-reproach restored on his features.

  “Thanks, Jack. I guess I owe you an apology.”

  “What for?”

  “Not telling you what I was letting you in for.”

  “A two-million-dollar ripoff?” said Dryden. “Skip it, Dick. Go and practice shots. We need a little prize money on the side.”

  “You haven’t come in just on account of me?”

  Dryden switched on the ignition. “Forget it. Mind you win Wimbledon.”

  Chapter 11

  “Hi, Mr. Dryden. Good weekend?”

  “Middling”

  Zena on Reception pulled a face at the doorman.

  Dryden stepped into the elevator. The morning routine — KNX/CBS News, coffee, Los Angeles Times, San Diego Freeway, parking lot, familiar faces on the sidewalk — had reinstated the world he had stepped out of on Thursday. The loose ends of last week waited on his desk. A stack of unanswered mail, the Colgate contract for Hansenburg, half-yearly figures from London. He applied himself to them, deliberately insulating himself from Project Goldengirl.

  He didn’t give it a thought till three-thirty, when he finished dictating correspondence. He looked at his personal secretary as she glanced up to se
e if there was another letter.

  “My calendar, Jackie. What’s it like for the next three weeks?”

  “Busy, Mr. Dryden. There’s the trip to New York Thursday, and Tokyo next week. Most other days I have lunch dates written in. Would you care to see it?”

  “Later. I’ll have to cancel New York and Tokyo. Something has come up. Would you have a look through and see which of those lunches I can put off? I shall need some afternoons clear.”

  She widened her eyes slightly. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Dryden.” She got up, a tall, bright-eyed girl in her twenties, never off work.

  “Thanks. What’s the secret, Jackie? How do you keep so fit? Sports, is it?”

  She laughed. “My idea of sports is to have my guy Hal take me shopping in Beverly Hills. I keep in condition that way.”

  “Sensible.”

  When she had closed the door, he allowed the weekend to resurface. He wouldn’t say he had it in perspective yet — it was too close for that — but he could begin to get a few things straight. By committing the agency to an agreement with the consortium, he had gone clean against his first intentions, performed an about-face he would hate to admit to any of the earnest young executives on the next floor.

  What had influenced his change of mind? Two things: Goldine’s running in San Diego, and the couple of hours he had spent with her at La Jolla.

  He examined the reasons. Something in the way she had run in those two finals he had watched had convinced him she was a world-class athlete. The opposition had been mediocre; Debbie Jackson was the only runner there with any reputation, and she might simply have had a bad day. He was no authority on track. He couldn’t tell you the world record for 100 meters, let alone the Olympic qualifying standard. All it came down to was a hunch that through that rain in San Diego he had seen the glint of gold.