Goldengirl

They discussed the elegance of nineteen-thirties automobile design, tacitly agreeing to a short adjournment of the main debate. But it wasn’t long till dinner. Armitage couldn’t leave the thing unresolved. Dryden, totally unenthusiastic about dabbling in track, was ready to compromise at least to the extent of sitting at the table with an athlete. There he would be on familiar ground, so to speak. Most of his business was conducted over meals. Without being too obvious about it, he ought to be capable of raising enough difficulties to smother the project. He gave details of the Excalibur’s performance, pausing tactfully at intervals.

Armitage wasn’t oversubtle at this game. ‘It was a great period, the thirties. There was hardship, I know, but fabulous things were going on in most areas of life. Take sports. Have you ever thought what a killing you could have made as agent to giants like Babe Ruth, Joe Louis, Fred Perry. Hey, and that’s forgetting Jesse Owens. Now, there was a guy with merchandising potential. What was it — four golds at the Berlin Olympics? You could have done Jesse a good turn if you’d been around in thirty-six, eh, Jack?’

Dryden avoided answering directly. ‘The best they could think of was matching him with racehorses and having him do a turn at the Globetrotters’ games.’

Armitage lobbed it back. ‘What if some genius like Owens showed up in America this year and gold-rushed the Olympics? You’d be interested in handling the commercial rights, wouldn’t you?’

‘No agent would pass up a commission like that,’ said Dryden, and added with a wink, ‘Level with me, Dick. Do you have the grandson of Jesse Owens staying here?’

Armitage grinned. ‘Don’t rush me, Jack.’ The awkwardness between them was lifting. ‘I want to fill you in a little before we get around to identities. Suppose, for example, I told you that my athlete is completely unknown to the public.’

Dryden smiled back. ‘That’s not a good selling point, Dick. You have me a little disappointed there.’

‘It could be an advantage if we really go over big at the Olympics,’ Armitage pointed out. ‘Unknown American on Moscow Medal Spree.’

‘I like that,’ said Dryden generously. ‘I begin to think you should try journalism, Dick. One detail still gives me a little trouble. How does our completely unknown athlete get selected for the U.S. Olympic team?’

The whimsical trend in the conversation was relaxing Armitage. ‘I can understand your problem there,’ he told Dryden. ‘Being unfamiliar with track in the States — up to now, that is — you wouldn’t know our selection system. It’s beautifully simple, actually. We have our U.S. Olympic Trials a month before the Games, and the first three in each event make the team. No argument, no comeback. If the world-record holder has muscle problems and finishes fourth, that’s too bad. It saves a lot of hassle, though. Do you see it now? If our unknown can make the first three, that’s the ticket to Moscow.’

Dryden leaned back in his chair with an air of satisfaction. ‘Nice.’ He smiled for fully five seconds before allowing the puzzled look to steal across his features again. ‘There is another area of difficulty. The Trials. How does an inexperienced athlete get up there at the finish with fellows professionally coached in all the finer points?’

‘Ah.’ Armitage held up a finger in acknowledgment. ‘I mentioned that our athlete was unknown. I didn’t say inexperienced. There’s a difference. You see, she’s had expert coaching.’

‘She? We’re talking about a girl?’ Dryden’s surprise cut clean through the irony that was cushioning the conversation.

Armitage began speaking rapidly. ‘We are. A good-looker. Blond. A natural for the admen, Jack. More important than that, a fantastic runner. Sure, I know everyone says American sports are male-oriented, and they are. But women do make it to the top, and don’t tell me America doesn’t need a sports goddess when there’s one in my own sport earning bloody near as much as I am. That’s in prize money. What she picks up in endorsements I wouldn’t mind having.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I want to tell you about this, Jack. Two years back, I was having terrible hamstring trouble, remember? I did the rounds of the hospitals and was near despair. Finally I was recommended to a physiologist in Bakersfield, a qualified physician who earned his bread lecturing at the California Institute of Human Science. I was told he sometimes treated sports injuries and had a lot of success with muscle injuries. He fixed it for me, and I’ve had no twinges since. Doc Serafin, a great guy.’

‘I remember,’ said Dryden. ‘You were full of admiration for him.’