‘I guess we underestimated the opposition, Janie. Still, thanks for a great race. It’s up to the judges now.’
Janie smiled. ‘One judge, Goldine. I’ll abide by His decision.’
Someone peeled down her socks to assist the circulation.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said quickly.
But it was done. Her exposed right calf was discoloured by a large bruise, the skin badly grased.
‘Janie, what happened?’
‘There was no reason for anyone to know. I had a small accident on my way out of the hostel this afternoon. One of those things.’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘Someone bumped me on the steps by the entrance. A black lady. Poor soul, she seemed unable to speak. It was a shock, but I had a couple of hours to get over it. It didn’t affect my running just now, really it didn’t.’
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.’
Sixteen
‘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, victimised 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 200 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 200 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 100 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.’