‘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 prised 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 scandaclass="underline" 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?’