‘We defer to Mr. Klugman’s judgment here,’ said Serafin. ‘He has worked things out with Goldengirl.’
‘You’re bothered about the conditions?’ said Cobb. ‘Is the surface slippery?’
‘Maybe we should issue her skates,’ suggested Valenti.
‘It gives a sufficient grip,’ Klugman answered, unamused.
Down in the rain, the whistle blew to bring the girls under starter’s orders. They unzipped their warm-ups and dropped them in the baskets provided at the start. Debbie Jackson, the favorite, a slimly built black girl, was taking her time while the others waited in the rain.
‘That’s the kind of dodge you pick up when you’ve run a few,’ Klugman said pointedly to Serafin. ‘Look at Goldengirl. The first to strip, and she’s that drenched you can see the bra through her shirt. Thank Christ she has the sense to keep on the move. Weather like this finds out muscle weakness sooner than anything.’
‘Coming up to countdown for this red-hot first heat of the one-hundred-metre dash,’ gushed the announcer. ‘We have five girls going, fans. From right, number seventeen, Debbie Jackson, San Jose Cindergals; fifteen, Marlene Da Costa, Long Beach Comets; twenty-four, Goldine Serafin, unattached; sixteen, Delphine Donovan, San Diego Mission Belles; and thirty-two, Judy Winstanley, Comets. Over to you, starter.’
Not till this moment had Goldine’s height in relation to other girls made a strong impression on Dryden. The line-up might have been choreographed for some grotesque modern ballet: five girls — three black, two white — marshaled by two portly women in plastic raincoats. Goldine head and shoulders above everyone in the center. Next to her the smallest girl in the race, on a level with the number on her shirt. It was a definite relief when they got to their marks and sank their disparities in the uniformity of the crouch start.
The gun fired twice. A false start. ‘Not Goldengirl,’ Serafin emphasised.
For a second time they formed their unflattering row. Again, they moved forward to the starting line and got into their blocks. The rain drummed heavily on the roof of the stand.
‘Set.’
As the gun cracked, the first away was the announcer: ‘Good start this time. Jackson smoothly into her stride. Serafin picking up sharp, too. This girl can move! Looks like Jackson, from Serafin. Da Costa out of it. But here comes Winstanley! Watch this, fans.’
Jackson was two yards clear and Goldine was cruising in behind her, glancing to her left to be sure there was no late challenge from Da Costa. What she had failed to see — it was stunningly clear from the stand — was the sudden surge of speed from the girl on the near side, who passed her two yards from the line.
‘Jackson takes it from Winstanley,’ crowed the announcer. ‘Serafin third. Howdya like that for a sudden-death finish, fans?’
Klugman was making it very clear how he liked it. ‘She’s blown it, the stupid bitch! My God, she wasn’t even looking to her right. Left for dead by a second-choice club runner. It’s unbelievable!’
Serafin was ashen. ‘Someone must do something. Not you,’ he told Klugman. ‘You’ll be answering to me for that charade. Sammy, if you please. We must salvage what we can from this. There are two finals still to contest, and I want her in a positive frame of mind, not torn apart by abuse.’
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-metre 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-metre 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-metre 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 metres 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.