Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  “That I really dig,” said Valenti.

  “At the proper time, I’ll sound out the campaign managers,” said Dryden. “Like all these things, it’s a question of timing it right. I think we can count on the White House reception and a ticker-tape return.”

  “This is starting to shape up,” said Sternberg. “You have any other ideas?”

  “Initially after Moscow, we’ll let the media take over,” said Dryden. “She’ll spend two weeks doing civic receptions, TV talk shows, phone-ins, magazine interviews, and somehow making commercials in between. After that, it’s up to me to keep her fame flowing. There’s a well-tried formula: posters, some fashion modeling, a little fund-raising for charity, but otherwise strict cash on the nail for guest appearances, some sportscasting, possibly a pop record and definitely a movie. She’ll write a book, of course, and a syndicated column for the newspapers. The market should hold up for eighteen months to two years with some infusion of interest here and there. You know, rumors of marriage with some big-name celebrity. That’s the way I see it, gentlemen. If you have other ideas, I’ll be glad to have them.”

  “The center spread in Playboy,” said Valenti. “They pay fantastic money.”

  “I figured he’d move into the twentieth century if we gave him time,” Sternberg commented in a loud aside to Armitage.

  “That’s something we might consider later,” said Dryden evenly, as La Jolla Beach flickered across his memory. He wanted to get through this session without disclosing a personal interest in Goldine.

  Serafin nodded to Dryden. “Gentlemen, I think we have heard enough to give Mr. Dryden’s plans our backing. I take it you are all in favor of the scheme as outlined?”

  “There is one point I should like to have clarified,” said Cobb, lifting his eyebrows deferentially.

  “But of course,” said Serafin. “What’s the problem?”

  “No problem,” answered Cobb. “It’s just that the businessman in me likes to have everything cut and dried. When I joined the consortium two years back, it was simply as an investment, a profit-making venture. A bit of a gamble, perhaps, but that’s what business is about. If you examine my career, you’ll find I made my way up through a number of biggish gambles — perhaps ‘calculated risks’ is a better way to put it. I take a long look at what’s involved, who is involved and what the return might be. Project Goldengirl appealed to me from the start as a smart idea. You want to give the girl her chance, so you approach people who might invest in her and we all share in her success. As a cautious cuss, I took a careful look at the other members of the consortium. We’re an oddly assorted bunch — and I’m not getting at anyone — but we’ve all come into this with the simple aim of turning a profit. I like that. I like your team: Lee knows his psychology, Klugman has obviously got the girl into shape, and Dryden has just convinced me he can raise that twenty million he predicted. Just one person worries me in all this.”

  “The girl herself?” said Valenti.

  “Fortunately, no. I think she’s as committed as the rest of us. The cause of my concern is you, Dr. Serafin.”

  “Do you suppose I’m not committed to this?” said Serafin in amazement.

  “On the contrary, I’m sure you are. What concerns me is why. When we met on the tennis ranch last month, Dryden came up with a new proposal for dividing the profits. We agreed to it without any hassle at all.”

  “The agreements are ready for you to sign,” said Serafin.

  “Fine,” said Cobb with a smile. “I’m not asking for changes. The terms suited me, as I’m sure they suited everyone else. Except you. In effect, you forfeited your right to a direct share of the profits. Okay, you represent the trust, and Goldengirl isn’t going to let you starve, but I still find it baffling that you surrendered your right to a guaranteed two million. Either you’re a fool, which I don’t believe, or there’s something in this for you worth more than two million bucks. If there is, your fellow members of the consortium are entitled to know what it is.”

  Serafin eased a finger around his collar and blinked as if pained. It was an understandable reaction. If Valenti or Sternberg had put in the knife, he might have turned the thrust aside. From Cobb, it wasn’t a wild stab; it was an incision, carefully measured, precisely completed. And now the wound gaped.

  He made an attempt at evasion, almost as a reflex. “I’m not clear on the relevance of this to our meeting. We are here to discuss Dryden’s proposals, aren’t we?”

  His appeal was to the others around the table, but Cobb replied, speaking in the mild, urbane manner he had used throughout. “You’d like me to explain the relevance? I thought possibly you’d prefer to speak for yourself.”

  Serafin shrugged. “You started this. You’d better go on. I’m still not sure what it is about.”

  “Very well,” said Cobb. “Gentlemen, I’ve reason to believe Dr. Serafin intends to use Goldengirl’s forthcoming fame to give publicity to certain theories he holds. As I made clear a minute or two ago, when I joined the consortium I took steps to learn what I could about everyone involved. I’ve no doubt that the rest of you did likewise. My inquiries into Dr. Serafin’s career revealed that he has devoted much of his working life to propounding certain physiological theories. I believe he masterminded Project Goldengirl as a genuine attempt to justify these theories. We’ve been backing a scientific experiment. That’s okay. It still happens to be an attractive commercial proposition. Once I was satisfied that the object of the experiment was three gold medals, I was in. So long as I collect, I don’t mind what this venture proves. The thing that needs discussing now is what effect it will have on the merchandising campaign if Dr. Serafin gets up after the Games and claims Goldengirl is the triumph of his experiment. That’s the relevance to our present discussion. What will it do for the image if Goldengirl is admitted to be a golden guinea pig?”

  Serafin was ashen. “It wouldn’t be like that,” he said in a voice tremulous with shock. “A scientific paper, that’s all I have in mind. Something in the American Journal of Physiology. It needn’t affect the merchandising. The public at large isn’t interested in my theories. I want to demonstrate the truth to my colleagues in the world of biological science. It’s far too technical to be of wider interest.”

  “I feel like Dow Jones just dropped fifty points,” said Valenti.

  “Would somebody fill me in?” said Sternberg.

  Dryden obliged. Why should Cobb do all the running? “Dr. Serafin supports a theory that the human race is growing taller from one generation to the next. He contributed some important research to the argument in the sixties. Physiologists who contest the theory say that the human frame isn’t capable of adapting to indefinite increases. They believe the trend Dr. Serafin and others have reported is just a process of restoration to normalcy after bad conditions in the last century produced stunted people. Goldengirl is an exceptional individual, a prodigy, as tall as Dr. Serafin expects people to become in the next century, but with a physique to match her height. A six-foot-two-inch mesomorph, perhaps unique among women. If she wins in Moscow, he can claim her performances prove the body capable of functioning efficiently — no, superlatively — with the larger frame he projects people will have in the future.”

  “I see someone else has been digging,” said Cobb.

  “That’s all we’re sweating over?” said Sternberg. “Do you think anyone gives six bits whether we’re all growing taller?”

  “No,” said Cobb. “But think about what will happen when people read in the papers that Goldengirl was running in Moscow to prove a scientific hypothesis. That she has an exceptional physiology. They’re going to translate that into something simpler. The girl they saw winning all those medals on TV wasn’t the kid next door, after all. She was some kind of weirdo. A freak. It wasn’t Uncle Sam she was running for, bringing a lump to their throats; it was a group of scientists. What do you think that’s going to do for her image? Do you suppose the orange growers of Califo
rnia will want her in their ads after that?”

  Serafin was shaking his head. “How can I make you understand? I don’t intend it to be like that. This will be a scientific paper. It need not mention her name.”

  “Do you suppose that’s going to fool the press — Miss S, who won three gold medals?” asked Cobb relentlessly. “After Moscow, the girl will be a world celebrity. Everything about her is of interest. You know as well as the rest of us that nothing sells papers faster than dirt on some big name.”

  “Dirt?” Serafin was almost speechless. “This isn’t dirt.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” said Cobb. “All it wants is a headline ‘Goldengirl Was Guinea Pig’ and that’s our revenue cut — by how much would you say, Dryden?”

  “It’s true. We’d be sunk.”

  “Spooked,” said Sternberg.

  “So how do we handle this?” said Valenti, mashing his half-finished cigar into an ashtray.

  “We keep cool,” said Cobb. “Let’s be reasonable. Dr. Serafin was the architect of Project Goldengirl, and he’s still essential to its success. If he hasn’t been entirely frank with us about his intentions, that wasn’t from any wish to do us in. I’m satisfied he didn’t realize the damage he could do the project by publishing his paper. I think there’s room for compromise here. Dryden has said the merchandising campaign needs eighteen months to two years. I’d like to suggest that Dr. Serafin delay publication until August 1982, or earlier if we hit our twenty-million-dollar target before then.” He looked around the table. “Would that be generally acceptable?”

  “Sounds like you have the answer,” said Valenti. “Do you see any problem, Dryden?”

  “Not if Dr. Serafin agrees. Publicity of this kind would be damaging early in the campaign. Actually, at the end, it might give it a lift. We won’t be pitching for contracts at that stage.”

  “How about it, then?” Cobb asked Serafin. He put the question as genially as offering a drink, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was an ultimatum.

  Serafin’s eyes had the glazed look of a man on trial who knows it’s all over, the sentencing is done. The consortium he had created had taken over. “I’ll delay publication,” he promised. “When you have waited as long as I have to prove yourself right, you can hold on for longer.”

  “That’s all right, then,” said Cobb, picking up his calculator from the table. “I just wanted to clarify the point.”

  Chapter 15

  “Anyone want a pair of track shoes, as once used in the U.S. Olympic Trials?” The girl in the Kansas University tracksuit was close to tears. She stood at the dressing-room door, hot from running, black hair moist with sweat, warm-ups dangling from her arm, the spikes in her hand. Nobody was listening to her. “Size 6a, urethane-coated kangaroo uppers with wraparound heel,” she read from the label in a voice that demanded attention. “No takers, huh?” She held them at arm’s length over the wastebasket to the right of the door. “Positively your last chance, girls, to bid for the shoes that took fourth place in Heat Three of the one-hundred-meters Qualifying Round. Do I hear an offer? Too late.” She let them drop into the basket. “That’s my contribution to the U.S. Olympic Appeal.” Buoyed up a little by what she said, she crossed the tiled floor to the open cubicle where her things were. Around her, other girls obliviously continued changing for their turn in the arena. She got no response from anyone before a second loser came dejectedly through the door. “What did you do?”

  This girl was in the Crown Cities Track Club colors. She held up her right hand with all fingers extended.

  “Fifth? Too bad. Join the club. I’m through with track. I just threw my spikes away. What time did they give you?”

  “Eleven-five.”

  The Kansas girl shook her head. “That’s slow. I made eleven-three-six. My best ever, but I’m still quitting. Did you see Heat Three? It was my luck to draw the Serafin dame. What does the G stand for — Giant? It was like lining up with the Statue of Liberty. She wasn’t even trying. Eleven-one. I’ll never go that fast. What’s the pleasure in going on, if you know you can never be the best? I tell you, from now on, it’s nonstop dissipation for me: cigarettes, champagne and S-E-X. I shall burn my letter sweater the moment I get back to Kansas. I want to know the bliss of walking around college without guys giving me the elbow and saying ‘Hey, stud.’” She tugged off her damp trackshirt, unfastened the bra underneath, and took the weight of her breasts in her hands. “As of now, buddies, you’re going to live a little. You can thank Miss G. Serafin, unattached, for that.”

  *

  Midway up the terraced stand along the home stretch of the University of Oregon’s Hayward Field, Dryden was sitting between Serafin and Melody. There was no obligation to sit with the consortium, as there had been in San Diego; Sternberg and Valenti had stayed beside one of the pools at the Jacaranda, claiming they had such confidence in Goldengirl that watching qualifying rounds would bore them. Dick Armitage had a previous arrangement to use the University tennis court for practice. Cobb was standing with Lee and Klugman beside the track barrier, in conversation with Goldine on the inner side. She looked relaxed after her stylish success in the 100-meter heats. The second round was starting in twenty-five minutes, after the finish of the race in progress, the men’s 10,000 meters.

  Dryden might have been down there with them, but for a late-night drink he had taken with Cobb. After the disclosures at the meeting, it had been logical to compare notes on Serafin. Cobb’s information had been commissioned from an inquiry agent. There was nothing in the report Dryden hadn’t learned for himself in Bakersfield. But they did agree it was vital to provide Serafin with reassurance. They didn’t want him deciding the meeting had been a takeover. Dryden had volunteered to take first turn.

  Melody’s job for the afternoon was listing the detailed results of every heat in the two rounds of the 100 meters, including anemometer readings. As well as the information coming from the public address and the bulletin board, Serafin dictated his own observations on the way each race was run, pinpointing likely rivals in the rounds to come. From the care he took in distinguishing between winners who were fully extended and others with something in reserve, his commitment to the project hadn’t evaporated yet.

  The draw for the second round had just been announced.

  “Number one twenty-six. Who was that?” Serafin asked.

  Melody consulted her clipboard. “M. Devine, Tennessee State University. The little black girl with Afro hair who won the heat after Goldengirl’s. I’ll tell you her time. Eleven point sixteen. Wind reading point zero eight against.”

  “Mary-Lou Devine,” said Serafin. “That’s strong opposition for the Quarter-Final. How about one hundred three?”

  “J. Pharoah, Valley of the Sun Track Club.”

  “We can forget her,” said Serafin. “She was a poor third in Carroll’s heat. The others I remember. Shadick should be among the qualifiers, but the rest were stretched to survive the first round. This might, after all, be an easier day than any of us planned for. She has a hard one coming up tomorrow.”

  Dryden had checked his program. “Not the hardest.”

  “Quite a severe test for the second day,” said Serafin. “The Semi-Final and the Final of the hundred, with the qualifying round of the four hundred sandwiched between. Did I show you her schedule for the week?” He took a card from his pocket and passed it to Dryden.

  “It’s not the most imaginative example of program planning I’ve seen,” Dryden commented. “Two finals, with just a half hour between, on Wednesday — that’s really brutal.”

  “Don’t blame the people here,” said Serafin. “This closely follows the program for the Olympics. If you examine it, you’ll see that the four hundred provides the problems. They don’t envisage anyone combining that with the short sprints. There’s no difficulty for runners doubling in the dash events, because there’s a day’s rest between the hundred Final and the first round of the two-hundred. Ho
wever, we’ve known about this for months, and planned for it. It’s one of the challenges you take on board when you attempt something nobody has achieved before.”

  “She has to beat the program planners as well as the world’s best athletes,” said Dryden.

  “Exactly.” Serafin smiled. He seemed to like the notion. “You’re a perceptive thinker, Dryden. We could have used your help in the early stages of our planning. If there had been a little more active help from the consortium in those important discussions, I might have been encouraged to confide in them more readily. Yes, I wish you had been with us for the whole of the last two years.”

  Melody seconded that, with a gentle pressure of her left thigh against Dryden’s right.

  *

  At four forty-five, when they returned to the Jacaranda, Sternberg was asleep in a peacock chair under a large pink canopy. Valenti was sipping something from a tall cocktail glass. Two empty ones stood on the metal table beside his sun-lounger.

  “She made out okay, then,” he said. “You think I’m clairvoyant? I only have to look at your faces. She do a good time?”

  “Eleven flat in the Quarter-Final,” said Melody. “That was the second fastest of the day.”

  “She judged it beautifully,” said Dryden. “I think she’ll go faster.”

  “She’ll have to,” said Valenti. “Second fastest won’t do tomorrow. Christ, no, she’ll have to step on the gas then.”

  “Second fastest would be sufficient, in fact,” said Serafin. “That would get her a place on the team.”

  “Yeah, but let’s not kid ourselves. This isn’t just about making the team, is it? It’s about shooting for contracts. Dryden has to put her over as America’s number-one Olympic hope. I tell you, I’ll be looking for something faster in the Final tomorrow.”

  “With your support, I’m sure she’ll produce it,” Cobb told Valenti, adding solicitously, “Did you pass a relaxing afternoon?”