Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  There was a movement behind Goldine. A hand touched her arm. “Would you please come over here and talk to NBC-TV, Miss Serafin? The judges have just confirmed the result. You made third, so you’ve qualified for three sprints in the Olympics. That has to be some kind of record.”

  Janie looked up. “That’s marvelous! The Lord willed it, Goldine.”

  Chapter 16

  “Satisfied?”

  Dryden was well into the Los Angeles Times story on Goldine. Scattered round him in the coffee lounge of the Jacaranda were copies of all the morning papers the hotel supplied. He looked up. The question came from Klugman. The resentment in it wasn’t well concealed.

  “With the press coverage, you mean?”

  Klugman nodded.

  “It’s a start,” said Dryden. Nothing he had read so far had struck him as objectionable. Aside from straight reporting of the Finals, the emphasis was mainly on Goldine’s reaction to becoming an instant Olympic hope. The tabloids featured her on inside pages, captioning pictures with quotes from her press conference. Some of the more serious papers raised the question whether it would be wise to contest as many as three events in Moscow, but that was predictable. It couldn’t take away her right to compete. “Anything wrong?”

  “Just tell me one thing. How much longer is it going on?”

  “What, exactly?”

  Klugman flapped his hand over the papers. “All this. When do we get the lousy newsmen off our backs?”

  Dryden put down his paper. “You’re being harassed?”

  “Not me,” said Klugman, glaring. “Well, I gave some interviews yesterday. I agreed to talk to them, so no sweat. I’m talking about Goldengirl. You were at the press conference last evening. You know how long it lasted. Was there one question they didn’t ask her, do you reckon?”

  “It was a pretty thorough going-over,” Dryden agreed. “She didn’t expect any different. Actually, I thought she held up well.”

  “Me too. But would you believe they’re back for more this morning, asking the same damn-fool questions? I just came up from the hostel. She must have a dozen of them in her room.”

  “That would include some photographers?” said Dryden.

  “Yeah. Taking pictures of her sitting up in bed reading telegrams.” Klugman almost spat out the words.

  “So?” said Dryden. “It’s been done a thousand times before, but can you think of a better excuse for photographing a pretty girl in bed?”

  Klugman’s lip curled. “She’s a runner.”

  “A brilliant one. She’s also a good-looker. If you want an answer to your question, I reckon she’ll be getting a lot more attention from the press. When the sportswriters are through, the gossip columnists and the features editors move in. Sports provide the press with new faces every day, but how often are they pretty and can talk? Words and pictures sell newspapers. Look, without publicity, this project won’t get off the ground. I thought you understood this.”

  “The further we get into this thing, the less I understand,” said Klugman, shaking his head in a slow, victimized manner.

  “Such as?”

  “The way she ran yesterday. Those Finals should have been sensational. They were crap. You saw her earlier this week. Monday, she looked invincible. A U.S. record easing up in her two hundred Quarter-Final. Yesterday, it’s like one cylinder is jammed. Twenty-three dead and fifty-two. Christ, she was faster in San Diego when it was pissing with rain.”

  “Maybe the record-breaking earlier in the week was a mistake,” said Dryden. “The papers seem to think she hit her peak too early.”

  “You telling me my job?” Klugman’s face reddened menacingly.

  “I’m telling you what the papers say.”

  “Screw the papers. What do you think went wrong?”

  “Hard to tell,” Dryden warily answered. “I didn’t get the chance to talk to her about it. Could it have been nerves? There was a lot on those two Finals.”

  “Every athlete suffers nerves,” said Klugman, unimpressed. “You run on your nerves. I’ve heard Olympic champions say the reason they won was they were so shit scared of losing. No, I don’t rate nerves at all.”

  “Let’s hear your theory, then.”

  After a quick look around the lounge, Klugman said, “Something physical.”

  “Her time of the month, you mean?”

  “Not that. That’s two weeks away. No, I figure she picked up a virus. Tuesday she complained to me that the four hundred had felt wrong. Her limbs went heavy on her. I tried to tell her it was understandable after two hard races, but she insisted I report it to Serafin.”

  “Did you?”

  “The same evening. Remember when I came up here that evening Sternberg was telling stories?”

  Dryden nodded. “Serafin and Lee left the room with you.”

  “They diagnosed an anxiety condition. Said she’d be okay next morning. She was — until she ran again. After the two hundred Semi, the heavy sensation returned. When she told me that, I saw trouble ahead. I mean, it’s wild enough planning to beat America’s best in two different events in the space of a half hour, without going to the mark less than one hundred per cent fit. Man, I suffered through those races.”

  “I’m sure. We all sweated,” said Dryden. “But she qualified even though it was touch and go in the last. If you’re right about the virus, it’s unlikely we’ll have the same scare in Moscow.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t know for sure,” said Klugman. “I’m no physician. This is just a hunch I have.”

  “It sounds reasonable,” said Dryden. “Serafin should be able to confirm it. If we asked him to check her over —”

  “I already did,” said Klugman. “That’s why I’m here this morning.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’ll get around to it sometime tomorrow evening, after we get to the new training camp.” Klugman’s tone left no doubt how he regarded that.

  “Tomorrow? That’s too late,” said Dryden. “If it’s a bug, she could have shaken it off by then. He needs to check her today.”

  “Try telling him that,” said Klugman.

  “What’s his objection?”

  “He figures there are too many pressmen around. He doesn’t want people getting the idea Goldengirl is sick. That would tarnish the image, he says. We have to wait till the spotlight is off her. When he came out with that, I lost my cool. I told him I don’t give a fuck for the image. Screw the media — I’ve given two years of my life to this project. I’m entitled to know if she’s liable to fold up in Moscow.”

  “You’re not the only one,” said Dryden. “I’m damned sure the consortium would feel they have the same entitlement. Do you really suppose this could happen at the Olympics?”

  “Look, I’m not clairvoyant. All I know is something was wrong yesterday. Don’t tell me it was too much racing, like the papers say, because I know that’s a lie. She trained for three hard runs. Any day she can reel off five or six two hundreds — fast ones — and then a four hundred inside fifty-two. She should have beaten records in the Finals, not dragged her ass into third place.”

  “She won two,” Dryden pointed out. “Let’s keep it in perspective. That four hundred was the only race she lost, out of twelve in the Trials.”

  “She damned near lost the two hundred,” said Klugman. “You want it in perspective. Okay. Goldengirl ran that in twenty-three flat. On Sunday in the Karl Marx Stadium, Berlin, Ursula Krüll took the East German title in just outside twenty-two. One second may not sound much to you, but it’s an awful lot of space between two sprinters. All right, mister, you’re the PR guy in this operation, so I don’t see you telling Goldengirl to quit acting the showgirl and get up here for a physical, but someone should.”

  The press interest in Goldine had really got Klugman’s hackles up.

  “I think it might be arranged without interfering with the publicity,” said Dryden. “After all, Dr. Serafin is her father. He’s entitled to some pr
ivacy if he visits her at the hostel. He could check her there. The main problem is convincing him it can’t be put off till tomorrow. If I canvassed support in the consortium, it might be managed. Will you leave it to me?”

  “I have no choice,” Klugman said without much gratitude. “He wouldn’t take it from me.”

  *

  Dryden didn’t lightly volunteer for another confrontation with Serafin. Goldine’s slightly jaded running on the final day of the Trials hadn’t bothered him once it was confirmed she had qualified for Moscow in her three events. With two U.S. records from earlier in the week, the Goldengirl idea had enough going for it now to justify trying it out on big business. That was all that had concerned him, until Klugman told him about this heaviness in the limbs. Klugman was too obsessive for his own good, or Goldine’s, but he knew about track. He had taken this seriously enough to report it to Serafin the evening it cropped up. Despite the way Serafin and Lee had dismissed it, events had come very near to justifying Klugman. He was right; it had to be investigated, and it was obvious there should be no delay. This had to be discussed with Serafin.

  The chance came at lunch, the last occasion the consortium would come together in Eugene. Dick Armitage was leaving for a tournament in San Francisco immediately after, and Sternberg, Valenti and Cobb had taxis coming from three o’clock on. Serafin and his team were obliged to stay another night, as Goldine had exclusives lined up well into the evening.

  “When are you leaving, Mr. Dryden?” Lee asked. Two tables had been pushed together to accommodate everyone. Lee was diagonally opposite, so the question was heard all round.

  “Probably tomorrow,” Dryden answered. “I’ll be calling Mahlon Sweet Airport this afternoon to make a reservation.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Serafin airily said. “Melody can fix it. Now that she’s through transcribing notes on the Trials, she’s looking for something to occupy her again, aren’t you, my dear?”

  A look of laser intensity passed between Melody and her employer.

  “If you’d mentioned it to me, I would have stopped over,” said Valenti, winking archly.

  Melody selected a breadroll of the long variety from the basket and wrung it savagely in half.

  Sternberg laughed. “What do you say to that, Gino, apart from ‘ouch’?”

  “I have no trouble making it with girls,” said Valenti, unamused.

  Armitage cued in Dryden. They had conferred over a pre-lunch drink. “Look, I’m leaving right after this. Is there anything else to settle?”

  “I think not,” Serafin started to say.

  “Really?” said Dryden. “You cleared up the mystery over Goldine’s physical condition?”

  “What’s that?” said Cobb at once.

  “You heard about that?” said Serafin, eyeing Dryden nervously.

  “Observed it,” Dryden smoothly answered. “I mean, it was obvious she wasn’t totally fit yesterday. I take it you’ve established the cause. A muscle strain, perhaps?”

  Serafin hesitated, as if deciding whether a quick affirmation might get by, but the pause itself defeated him. “We’re not entirely sure. She complained of some sluggishness in the limbs after the Semi-Final of the four hundred meters, and it seems to have affected her performance yesterday. Fortunately, she did enough to qualify, but you are right — she was not at her best. I have no explanation to offer yet. I simply assure you, gentlemen, I shall investigate this at the first opportunity.”

  “When will that be?” asked Dryden.

  “Tomorrow, when we arrive at the new training camp.”

  “Why not before?” asked Cobb, quick to pick up the point. “If there’s anything the matter, it should be looked at now.”

  “Let’s not get this out of proportion,” said Serafin, taking off his glasses to polish them. “She ran slightly below our expectation, but she still did all that was necessary. All athletes occasionally run below form. The human body is not an automobile; it has a complex metabolism. There could be scores of possible explanations. Something in the diet, perhaps. The onset of a cold. Some mild infection. Things that wouldn’t disturb you or me in the least can take the edge off the running of a top-class athlete.”

  Lee at once took up the thread: “The physical sensations could be psychosomatic. Goldengirl is unaccustomed to the strain of competition. In six days there’s quite a buildup of tension.”

  “Okay,” said Cobb in his easygoing way. “Maybe it’s physical, maybe not. You’re the people who can tell. I’m not making an issue out of this, but it seems to me if there was something wrong with the girl yesterday, there’s no sense waiting forty-eight hours before you check it out. Why the holdup?”

  “I should have thought that was obvious,” Serafin peevishly replied. “Goldengirl is getting a lot of attention from the press just now. We don’t want stories circulating that she is having medical attention. That wouldn’t help Mr. Dryden’s campaign one bit.”

  “You’re right there,” admitted Dryden. “But does this have to be done in a way that alerts the press? You’re her father. You have the right to visit her and spend some time alone with her. The press are constantly juggling schedules. I’m sure we can slot the physical in without creating undue interest.”

  “If you really think so,” said Serafin dubiously.

  “I’m with Mr. Cobb on this,” Dryden went on. “I think the important thing is to establish the reason why Goldine ran below her best yesterday. If it was something in her food, or a virus, surely your chance of locating it is better today than tomorrow? I’d like to think she’s going to Moscow without the possibility of a sudden loss of form. What happens there matters more than all the publicity here.”

  “Very well,” said Serafin, replacing his glasses. “I’ll visit her after this.”

  The conversation shifted to the arrangements for the day Goldine was to spend in Los Angeles meeting the press and touring TV studios. Valenti had ideas to secure maximum attention: a presidential-style welcome, with a band and majorettes. He wasn’t pleased when it was pointed out that a publicity backup on that scale didn’t square with the amateur image. “So what does an amateur athlete rate?” He demanded hotly, “— the Mormon Tabernacle Choir?”

  Sternberg, too, favored something spectacular. “To go over big, you need an angle,” he said. “Like, for instance, she meets that dame you told us about, won all the medals in Los Angeles. That Babe. They meet by chance on the plane and come down the steps together. Two golden girls. How about that?”

  “Babe Didrikson died in 1956,” said Serafin flatly.

  “Who cares? It’s still a great idea,” said Sternberg. “We can find someone else. No trouble.”

  “It’s too obvious,” said Dryden. “We don’t want this to look like a publicity stunt, even if it is. These ideas might work after the Games, but not before.”

  Sternberg wasn’t finished yet. “Maybe we could use her speed someway,” he said thoughtfully. “Yeah, she spots some kid stepping off the sidewalk and runs across and grabs him just before a three-ton truck squashes him flat. That ought to make the front page.”

  “Just tell me how you stage an incident like that,” said Dryden, growing impatient. “How do you synchronize a small child with a three-ton truck in a street in Los Angeles as Goldine walks by? And even if you managed it, do you think the press would be taken in by that kind of stunt? They’re not so dumb.”

  “Okay, wise guy. Tell us your idea.”

  “I’m against stunts,” said Dryden. “Look, the interest in Goldine is there already. You must have seen the papers today. Already she’s been interviewed by two TV networks and God knows how many radio stations. The magazine feature writers are with her most of today. Two weeks from now, she’ll be getting known to a wide public. It takes a little time for the thing to gather momentum. About then, the stories will be ready for some reinforcement, but nothing phony. What the media will want are new pictures, extra information — how she’s training for M
oscow, what she feels about the opposition, how her life has changed since she got to be an Olympic hope, and so on. I’m for playing it straight.”

  “Dryden is right,” said Cobb. “She’ll be giving them the sensational stuff in Moscow. Our business now is to lay foundations. We have to get her established as a marketable personality. We want people to see her on their screens next month and recognize her. We want them to know a few heartwarming details from the magazines: that she was the kid whose mother drowned saving her from the sea, that she’s a novice taking on athletes with years of experience in track and that she does it for fun, and for America — isn’t that wonderful?”

  By degrees, and grudgingly, Sternberg and Valenti backed down. The pre-Moscow period would be used for image-building, not shooting for headlines. The Dryden-Cobb alliance was proving effective.

  *

  Toward the end of the afternoon, sometime after the consortium had dispersed, Serafin entered the Jacaranda lobby. Dryden was waiting for him.

  “You examined her?”

  “I did,” said Serafin, “— as well as I could in the conditions. It wasn’t so thorough as the physicals I give her at the camp.”

  “Did you form an opinion?”

  “She seems to have picked up a mild virus infection of some kind. There’s definite inflammation of the throat. Nothing serious, but enough to account for the quicker onset of fatigue yesterday. I’ve put her on an antibiotic. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t get through the rest of her interviews.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Dryden. “Things still look good for Moscow, then?”

  “But of course.”

  “And you managed to get in without the press jumping to conclusions?”

  Serafin gave a smile. “Yes, as it happens, there were no questions. There was just one photographer outside, with a young woman from Cosmopolitan, I think. They seemed to recognize me, and made no objection when I went in or came out.”

  “Cosmopolitan,” said Dryden, making a mental calculation. “And you went in soon after three. At that rate, she has three more interviews scheduled. She could be through by six. I’d like a session with her myself this evening, if that can be slotted in. There are some details I must check before I start the rounds of the advertising executives. Funny the small things they want to know that can clinch a contract — the pitch of a voice, the shape of the hands. I’ve known a twenty-thousand-dollar deal to hinge on the hairiness of a tennis player’s arms.” He laughed. “No problem with Goldine, but I need to have the answers ready.”