Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  “They don’t have to know,” said Melody casually. “She could tell them she’s had it for years.”

  He looked out the window.

  *

  Next morning in the office he listened to phone messages the machine had logged over the weekend. Before running out of tape, it had taken calls from Adidas, Puma, Pepsi-Cola, Chrysler, TWA and a dozen others anxious to know if the kidnaping meant the end of Goldine’s Olympic ambitions. He put Melody on to answering them with a standard message that Mr. Dryden was unable to add anything yet to the statement issued by Dr. Serafin on the weekend, but was energetically pursuing the matter.

  There had also been calls from Valenti and Sternberg. He rang them personally. Valenti was convinced the whole thing was a publicity stunt — “Got to hand it to you — great idea — wish I’d thought of it myself.” Sternberg wanted to know who had put up the ransom, because if they expected a cut of the profits, they could go stuff themselves.

  Around midmorning, a call came in from Serafin. He had been contacted by the secretary of the U.S. Olympic Committee, demanding to know whether Goldine still planned to compete. They had reserves standing by, but the girls were entitled to more than a day’s notice to get through the formalities for the flight on Wednesday.

  “What did you tell him?” asked Dryden.

  Serafin answered in the same flat tone he had used to make the press statement. “I admitted I was not certain where Goldine was, but I would see that the message reached her. He told me they are fixing a medical for nine o’clock Tuesday morning. If Goldine doesn’t report, she is off the team.”

  “I’ll tell her. It’s her decision alone.”

  “She’ll be there,” said Serafin positively. “By the way, I’m flying back to Los Angeles with Lee this afternoon. Goldine left me in no doubt that my presence is no longer congenial, and I think the same would go for Lee. She appears to find you a more sympathetic mentor.”

  “That’s not my function, Dr. Serafin.”

  “Is it unwelcome?” said Serafin. “Mr. Dryden, I believe in facing facts. Goldine has no further use for me. For all practical purposes, you are now in charge of the project. Does that alarm you? Really, it is nothing. A sinecure. The important decisions have been taken. She will compete, and she will win. I doubt whether I shall go to Moscow at all. I can see it all on television in my own home. I have so much work to do, updating my case study.”

  When Dryden put down the phone he was bothered. It was unlike Serafin to bow out now, when everything was building to a climax. True, he had taken a tongue-lashing from Goldine, but he wasn’t the type to let that influence him. He had been at the center of this scheme from the start, dominating it with an obsessiveness bordering on monomania. Just to retire from the scene at this stage didn’t make sense. Either he knew something, or he was up to no good.

  That was not all Dryden had to worry about. A few minutes after he had put down the phone, a young man walked into his office. They had phoned from downstairs to say he was from NBC-TV. People in Dryden’s business didn’t turn away callers from the media.

  His name was Esselstyn. He was probably not thirty, short, tanned, with the cool of a croupier behind a wide smile. A sharp dresser, with fawn trousers, brown velvet jacket, pale-yellow shirt and green silk scarf fixed with a gold ring.

  “Great to meet you,” he told Dryden. “I’m in sports, on the production side. You remember The Superstars? Met several of your clients. Jim Hansenburg. Dick Armitage — or could that have been in The American Sportsman? Anyway, they told me you’re a fabulous guy. When I heard our research people had turned up your name I homed in. Volunteered to come up here myself and meet you.”

  “Research people?” repeated Dryden. “What exactly is this about, Mr. Esselstyn?”

  “Right to the point, huh? I heard you were a tough cookie, Jack. I’m Wayne, incidentally. Well, I’ll come clean. We’re putting together a TV special on this kid who made the headlines yesterday. The Cleveland kidnap girl. Goldine Serafin. You with me?”

  Dryden gave him a nod that committed him to nothing.

  “One hell of a newsmaker, that chick,” Esselstyn went on. “Unknown blonde beats top-class track stars in San Diego, goes to the U.S. Olympic Tryout and rewrites the record book. Then this kidnaping. If I was a PR guy, I couldn’t script it better. Next thing, Moscow — yeah, I know it’s shaping up as a cliffhanger, but she’ll get there. And whatever she does out there, it’s news. It can’t miss. So NBC Sports aims to put out a major feature on the kid when she makes it big in Moscow. It’s come my way.”

  “Nice for you,” said Dryden, “but I don’t see —”

  Esselstyn cut him short with a wagging finger. “Oh no, don’t let’s prevaricate, Jack. We were going to come clean, remember? I happen to know that you can put us wise to plenty in the Goldine Serafin story. Don’t panic, I’m not asking you to go on film. We’ll keep it off the record. I want you to know that this is planned as a tribute to Goldine. We want to touch the emotions. It’s a great story. I just want to get it right, you follow me? Now, my people have been digging, as I told you. We happen to know half the stuff the press have printed on Goldine is hogwash. Crap. Take the superjogger bit. You know, the story that she first discovered she could run when her pop sent her jogging around the block. Palpably untrue. We’ve spoken to a guy in Bakersfield who saw her working out on the college track two years ago. No mistake. He identified her old man. Goldine Serafin may be an overnight sensation, but she’s no novice to track.”

  “Does that matter?” said Dryden indifferently.

  The finger wagged again. “All, but hear this. That same guy in Bakersfield has a good memory for faces. Someone else was at the track watching Goldine’s workout, someone this guy had seen on Wide World of Sports. A mutual acquaintance, Jack. U.S. tennis champ Dick Armitage. Now, there’s a turnup. I never knew Dick was a track fan. Candidly, I would have thought he’d never seen a track in his life from the way he bucked those hurdles on Superstars. Still, he seemed to take an interest in young Goldine. We thought he had eyes for the chick at first. That would be some scoop — revealing that Dick is the man in her life. Too bad he knocks around with that broad in the Martini ads. There had to be some other tie-in. So we dug deeper. Learned Dick was in Eugene for the Trials last month. Keeping up his interest apparently. Suite at the Jacaranda. We took a look at the guest list and found your name. Dick’s agent. Now, what is a merchandising agent doing at an amateur track meet?”

  “Watching the sport,” said Dryden flatly. He was torn between ending this interview and learning how much Esselstyn knew.

  “Yeah.” Esselstyn paraded his neat line of teeth. “But let’s not kid ourselves. You guys don’t wait for sport stars to hit the jackpot before you move in. Okay, the Olympics are for amateurs and I’m not aiming to get Goldine banned. That would be counterproductive. So how about leveling with me? You have a stake in this girl — am I right?”

  “Just because I watched the Trials —”

  “You’re saying there’s nothing on paper? I’m prepared to believe that,” said Esselstyn.

  “I’m saying you’re wasting your time and mine,” said Dryden. “If you think you can link Dryden Merchandising with this girl on the basis of a track meet I attended with one of my own clients, you’re in the wrong business, Mr. Esselstyn. You should be in Disneyland, not NBC-TV.”

  “You have no professional interest in Goldine Serafin?”

  “Mine is a large and successful organization,” said Dryden. “I don’t spend agency time chasing after amateur girl athletes.”

  Esselstyn’s eyebrows pricked up. “Personal time, then?”

  Dryden stood up. “This is leading nowhere.”

  “You think so? You have no interest in Goldine? Maybe I should unscramble your memory, Jack. You were in Cleveland at Serafin’s press conference after the kidnap. Saw you there myself. Going to tell me the whole thing wasn’t a PR stunt? Pull the other one, Jack. I
’ll believe anything.”

  When he had finally prized Esselstyn out of the office, Dryden called NBC-TV. As he suspected, the man wasn’t employed by them. He was a free-lance, specializing in hatchet jobs on people in sports. It was lucrative work; he had an extensive organization and the TV networks used a lot of his material. Dryden had told him nothing, but he wasn’t the sort to give up.

  Within minutes, a call was put through from Goldine.

  “I need help.”

  It must have cost her something in pride to admit that.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The press. They found me. I went training with Pete on the New York Athletic Club track early this morning. Someone must have spotted me and tipped off the papers. First thing I knew, I was mobbed. Cameramen, questions, everything. I don’t know what to say to them. It’s out of control. Pete’s no use. He just bawls at them, and they won’t go away.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the club building on Central Park South. We’re under virtual siege here.”

  “You expect me to handle this?”

  “Who else can I ask? What can I say to them?”

  His pulse quickened. This was the crunch. His professional judgment told him it was crazy to get involved. Serafin and Lee had dropped out. Sharks like Esselstyn were moving in.

  “I thought you were taking charge of your own life now,” he stalled.

  “Jack, give me a break, for Christ’s sake. I’m scared. Do I have to plead with you?”

  She had said something like that on La Jolla Beach, and he had responded. This time his entire career was on the line.

  “Think about it,” he flatly told her. “If I show up, they’ll want to know who I am. They might recognize me, put two and two together. Agents aren’t generally tied in with amateur athletes.”

  The followup was swift and savage. In the abrasive voice she had used with Serafin, she said, “Okay. If you don’t come, I’ll give them a story. All those fat contracts you have ready for signature. The complete rundown, every lousy company. I’ll get Dryden Merchandising blacklisted all over America. Watch me.” The phone clicked.

  He held the purring receiver, staring at it, stunned by the change in Goldine, hating what this was doing to her, to him. He tried to figure a way out. There wasn’t one. He couldn’t ignore the threat. Goldine’s story would destroy the agency overnight. It would be blown up into a major scandal: secret deals with big business, a pretty girl exploited for profit, the Olympic rules violated.

  Melody was in the office, on the other phone. His eyes met hers. “Call the New York Athletic Club. Tell Goldine I’m on the way over. And don’t look so bloody smug.”

  On the short drive through Manhattan, he let the full implications sink in. Goldine would realize soon — if she hadn’t already — that she needed someone to take over from Serafin. The talk of running her own life had hit its first snag, and he was the remedy. It was no comedown for her: she was firmly in control. He was bound to co-operate, knowing she could set a match to his career anytime she liked.

  So how would he handle this? Was it worth one more try to persuade her to drop the whole idea of Moscow? If he told her how he felt about her, made it personal — Christ, it was — would that achieve a breakthrough? He knew it wouldn’t. She was groomed, conditioned, programed for one thing only. She was going for gold and needed his help. They both knew that.

  He wouldn’t be blackmailed into helping her. Damn it, she was only doing this in desperation. He must show her their interests were identical. It would hurt, but he had to be professional about this, think of her as Goldengirl, not Goldine. When she started picking up medals, her interest would be vested in the agency. No more blackmailing.

  Goldine, a threat: Goldengirl, a client.

  He relaxed. He knew what he had to do.

  Pressmen thronged the entrance of the stately NYAC building at the corner of Seventh Avenue on Central Park South. Klugman barred the door like a Kremlin guard. “Upstairs, first left,” he muttered to Dryden as he let him through, ignoring the protests and the flashing cameras.

  Goldine stood putting on lipstick in a small committee room, using a sepia photo of a baseball team as a mirror. She was in the black tracksuit, her hair tied with a white velvet ribbon. When she turned to face him, he noticed she was also wearing eyeshadow.

  “You came then,” she said sarcastically, “the genuine English gentleman. Did you tell the newsmen to get the hell out of here?”

  “You know very well they won’t go without talking to you.”

  She turned away and pursed her lips at the picture. “So what can I say?”

  “You can answer their questions. They’ll want to know about the kidnaping. Tell them what you told the police, that you must have been doped, so you don’t remember much. Say it didn’t seem like four days. You’re grateful to the people who paid the ransom, but you don’t know who they are. Okay so far?”

  She nodded.

  “Then, naturally, they’ll want to know if you’re fit to go to Moscow.”

  Turning back to face him, she asked, “What do you suggest I say?”

  He frowned in frank disbelief. “Haven’t you made up your mind?”

  “Not yet,” she answered off-handedly, inspecting her fingernails. They were lacquered.

  “It’s time you did. The U.S. Olympic Committee have set a deadline. If you’re going, you have to report for a medical at nine tomorrow.”

  “So?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “Christ, Goldine, do you want to run, or not? You got through some training this morning. Is the speed still there?”

  “It appears so.”

  He breathed more evenly. “Well?”

  “This medical,” said Goldine. “It’s pretty comprehensive, I guess. I’d have to tell them about the diabetes.”

  Dryden nodded. “It’s confidential between you and the doctors. No reason why the press should hear about it.”

  “You’re missing the point,” said Goldine. “What will those doctors make of it when I tell them I came down with this thing during the Trials? I’ll be sidelined.”

  “That’s putting it at its worst,” said Dryden. “Frankly, I don’t think that’s likely. You can tell them you’re stabilized on insulin and training normally. You might need extra support standing by in Moscow, but if they want you to bring home the medals, that’s not too much to fix. Have you seen the New York Times? You’re America’s answer to Ursula Krüll. This is shaping up as an East-West contest. There’s political prestige in it. People in high places have an interest in giving you your chance. You say the running is still there. Even if they decide three events is too much, they should agree to let you try the one hundred meters. If that goes well, why not the two hundred? Under medical supervision —”

  “Don’t give me that crap!” she broke in angrily. “I’m not going to Moscow to try one event and see how I feel. If I settled for two sprint titles, where would that leave me? At the end of a list so long it’s boring to recite. No, I’m Goldengirl, or I’m nobody.” She started toward the door, her face flame-red.

  He gripped her arm. “Hold on. Where are you going?”

  She glanced down at his hand. “To tell the press I’ve decided to pull out, if you’ll let go my arm.” She flicked away a tear with her free hand.

  He continued to hold her, his emotions churned up again. Why was she doing this? In effect, she was asking him to make the decision. She wanted it to come from him.

  He let his hand slip down her arm till their fingers met. For a moment she gripped him tightly like a threatened child, then let go.

  He suddenly knew she wasn’t bluffing. She really meant to quit unless he stopped her. It was up to him.

  He could stop the nightmare Serafin had started. Simply let her go and she was free. The papers would splash the story, write the valediction, and it was over. She could begin to pick up the threads of the life she had been plucked from fift
een years before. Dean Hofmann. The girl he loved.

  But was it possible to extricate the girl from the nightmare? Faced with it, he knew it was not. You couldn’t wipe away fifteen years of dedication to one idea. There would always be a sense of deprivation. Dean Hofmann had ceased to exist. There was Goldine, and for her sake there had to be Goldengirl.

  She was already at the door when he said, “Ursula Krüll can sleep easy, then.”

  Over her shoulder, she asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “She’ll be the golden girl of Moscow now. You were the only threat. Your clash with her was tipped as the centerpiece of the Games.”

  “Too bad,” said Goldine without interest.

  But she didn’t open the door. She was waiting to hear more.

  “What about you?” he asked without challenging the assumption that the decision was made. “Ursula is Goldengirl, so where does that leave you?”

  “Didn’t I just tell you?” she said, stung into a response. “If I’m not Goldengirl, I’m nothing. Nobody. Take a look at me. What you see is all phony — face, hair, figure, stature, even my name. I have no family, home, friends, job, no high school grades even.”

  “Two U.S. records,” put in Dryden.

  “Big deal. What use are those to an employer?” She was crying now, mainly in anger. “No, I don’t know where I go from here. They got it right when they called me the mystery blonde. I’m a mystery to myself.” She dabbed at the tears with a tissue. “What am I doing, leading off like this? I guess my eyes are a mess now.”

  “Not that I can see,” said Dryden. He smiled. “I like them made up. New, isn’t it? Is that for the photographers?”

  She snuffled through a half-smile. “First thing I bought in New York. My own contribution to Goldengirl’s image. I read a magazine feature on Ursula Krüll. She never wears make-up. Say, could that be why photographers make so much of her rear view?”

  They exchanged smiles, conspiring to break the tension.

  “I understand she has a highly provocative walk,” said Dryden. “If she’d walk into the West, she could make a fortune modeling Levi’s.”