‘The topless dancer!’ giggled Melody as Dryden unlocked his hotel room door and hustled her inside. ‘“Get a load of Ann-Marie, the topless dancer!” I never saw so many disappointed men in one place together. You should take out an action for deception.’
‘It wouldn’t stick,’ said Dryden. ‘Topless they promised, and topless she was. As topless as I am. They’re covered.’
Melody fell onto the bed laughing. ‘They should be!’
‘I’ve seen some poor entertainment in my time,’ went on Dryden, ‘but for an All-Star Revue, that beat everything. One topless dancer, with nothing to exhibit.’
‘No beefing, Jack,’ said Melody, still simpering at the memory. ‘It was all star. All star and no boob! “Get a load of Ann-Marie!” Do you think I might have drunk too much champagne?’
‘If that was champagne, it was as flat as Ann-Marie,’ said Dryden. ‘Thank God I had the foresight to take the cognac in with us. Melody, I’m sorry it turned out like that.’
She sat up. ‘Sorry? Don’t be sorry. I haven’t laughed so much in years. I nearly wet my pants laughing. Say one word more about Ann-Marie and I won’t answer for your bedspread. No, that’s mean. I like to be humored. Which door is the john?’
Dryden used the interval to open the bottle of Campari he had picked up from the bar.
‘Get a load of this, then!’
Melody was standing in the doorway of the bathroom wearing a pale-green silk-satin underslip, her arms burlesquing the action of a go-go dancer. ‘It’s cabaret time for disappointed guys. How about some backing?’
He tuned the radio beside the bed to something Latin-American. Still giggling, but moving rhythmically with the beat, she glided and bobbed toward him, stopping a couple of steps short, and by degrees easing the lacework straps simultaneously from both shoulders with her fingertips.
He watched the fine grain of the material slip over her breasts until they emerged, undulating gently with the music, the nipples pink and promising as the first buds of apple blossom. With a wriggle she persuaded the slip over her hips, turning suddenly to cheat him of more than a glimpse of her coppery pubic wedge, mockingly rotating her bottom where it had been. As an erotic display, it more than compensated for the nightclub fiasco, and the entertainment didn’t stop at visual arousal. Dryden slipped his hands around her ribs and got a load of Melody Fryer.
‘You’re pretty good at it,’ she announced, an indefinite interval later, as he lit her cigarette. She lay facing the ceiling, on the bedspread, coyness forgotten.
‘Now spoil it by adding “for an English guy.”’
‘No, I’m being sincere, Jack. Too bad I should meet you now, after two years of sexual deprivation.’
‘Really?’ said Dryden. ‘You mean not one of those guys in the training camp...?’
‘You have some sauce, Jack Dryden, asking a girl things like that! Deprivation doesn’t mean total neglect, but if it panders to your male ego, I can tell you I haven’t met anyone who tops you in a long time.’
‘And just when you’ve found me, you’re taking off again,’ said Dryden. ‘Sad.’
She blew cigarette smoke at him. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘Would you prefer it if I did?’
‘I guess not.’
‘If I thought it would end like this evening, I wouldn’t mind taking a chance on some other nightspot in an undisclosed location.’
‘You’d have to be determined. It’s a long way from L.A., buster.’
‘I get around in my line of business,’ said Dryden.
‘Like the shore of Lake Erie?’
‘That is a little remote.’ Dryden took stock. ‘I shall be in New York toward the end of next week. If I knew which part of Lake Erie...’
‘You have an office in New York?’
‘That’s where I shall work from,’ said Dryden, encouraged. ‘It wouldn’t take long from there by helicopter.’
‘Okay, if I feel like sampling the Erie nightlife, I can call you up, can’t I? That’s as much as I’m telling, Jack, and I think you know why. Now, how about finishing that Campari?’
U.S. TRACK AND FIELD TRIALS: GOLDINE HAS GOLDEN LOOK
By Ches Nottingham
EUGENE, Ore., July 14 — Goldine Serafin, 19, sensational winner of the 100 metres here at the U.S. Olympic Trials on Saturday, today filed her claim for representation in two more events with brilliant runs in the qualifying rounds of the 200 metres and the Semi-Final of the 400 metres. This morning, she coasted through the first round of the 200 with a 23.02 win, the morning’s fastest. In this afternoon’s Quarter-Final, she stunned her rivals with 22.72, clipping one tenth from the U.S. record, and leaving the 1979 AAU champion, Mary-Lou Devine, five metres down. Less than an hour later, go-getting Goldine was on the track again to buzz to a 51.30 victory in the Semi-Final of the 400 metres. Until today in these Trials, nobody has looked like heading blond Goldine, but there is a fine race in prospect in Wednesday’s 400-metre Final, when she will clash with Janie Canute, whose 50.45 in the second Semi-Final was a personal best, just fifteen hundredths short of the U.S. record.
‘Pete, that four hundred didn’t feel right.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Klugman. ‘You qualified. That was all you had to do.’
‘My legs felt heavy, like I was unfit.’
‘That’s not surprising after two hard races. You can’t expect to beat records in qualifying rounds and feel no effects at all.’
‘They still feel heavy.’
‘Then you must ask Ingrid for a massage. That’s why we brought her to Eugene.’
‘You don’t think I should tell Doc, in case there’s anything wrong?’
‘I’ll tell him. You’re a little jumpy, that’s all. One day’s competition to go — you’re sure to feel like this.’
‘Janie Canute didn’t tie up. She’s going to be hard to beat on Wednesday.’
‘You don’t really have to beat her. We just want you to make the team.’
‘There are two other girls in her Semi-Final faster than me.’
‘I know that. Don’t get yourself disturbed. You’ll take them in the Final like Grant took Richmond.’
‘Would you tell Doc about the stiffness in my legs?’
‘I’ll tell him. I’m going up to the Jacaranda right after this. Now don’t forget. Fix that massage with Ingrid, and you’ll be fine tomorrow.’
Klugman was less sanguine when he reported to Serafin. Possibly the way he related the conversation was influenced by the circumstances. He had found the consortium in one of the Jacaranda’s three cocktail bars. Melody’s perfume waged battle with Valenti’s cigar smoke over a table cluttered with empty glasses. Sternberg was telling jokes. Everyone was there, even Lee, sipping tomato juice and eating an olive.
This was the first time Klugman had visited the Jacaranda since arriving in Eugene. He and Ingrid had rooms in a four-story walkup, chosen for its proximity to the residence hall where Goldine was staying.
‘What’s yours?’ Armitage convivially asked.
‘I won’t bother, thanks,’ said Klugman. ‘I only wanted a few minutes with Dr. Serafin.’
‘No trouble, I hope?’ said Sternberg. ‘Now, where was I with this broken-hearted camel?’ He picked up the threads of his story.
Klugman moved behind the chairs to Serafin, and squatted to give him the news. ‘I don’t want to cause alarm,’ he said in an undertone, ‘but I’m a little concerned about Goldengirl.’ He reported the symptoms.
‘Heaviness?’ repeated Serafin.
‘I’m wondering if this could be a reaction to the change in altitude,’ said Klugman. ‘Years ago I did some training at the U.S. altitude camp at South Lake Tahoe, and they warned us to expect a reaction when we came back to sea level.’