Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics (12 page)

He hung up, looking concerned.

“What is it?” Stevie asked.

“Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you while we’re waiting for our credentials.”

Actually, there was no waiting. With the first final
scheduled for the next night, most of the media had apparently not arrived yet.

“You’re one of the first, actually,” said the cheerful young woman whose name tag said Alexis Verdon. She had one of those flat midwestern accents that reminded Stevie of a tennis player he had written about named Evelyn Rubin. She didn’t say “actually”; she said “aack-chew-uh-ly.”

Bobby and Stevie showed their IDs, and she handed them credentials and booklets that said
SCHEDULE
and
HEAT SHEETS
. When Kelleher asked for Tamara’s credential too, Alexis Verdon frowned.

“I think Mike Unger was going to leave a note that I was picking her stuff up,” Kelleher said.

Alexis had been looking through the list of names in front of her. “You’re right,” she said. “There’s a note right here.”

She handed Bobby the credential for Tamara and asked him to sign in the space next to her name.

“Just in case you don’t see her and she thinks she’s supposed to pick it up here,” she said.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll see her,” Kelleher said as he signed. “She’s my wife.”

“Oh!” Alexis said. “Funny, I never thought of sportswriters being married to one another.”

“Well, someone has to marry us, I guess,” Kelleher said, smiling.

“If this picture is accurate (“aack-curate”), it looks like you did just fine.”

“He did better than fine,” Stevie said.

“Well, I’ll bet your girlfriend is very pretty too,” Alexis Verdon said.

“You’ve got that right,” Kelleher said. “His girlfriend is Susan Carol Anderson.”

Alexis Verdon’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

Stevie thought she looked a bit wobbly.

“Thanks,” Kelleher said to her as they walked away.

“Did you have to do that?” Stevie hissed as the blast furnace hit them again walking out the door.

“It was worth it to see the look on her face.”

“Yeah,
you
think it’s funny people are shocked she’d date me, but somehow I don’t.”

“That’s not—”

“Moving on. Will you please tell me what the call from Tamara was about?”

“Reverend Anderson wouldn’t come to lunch. Susan Carol is really upset. She says her father is ‘lost.’ ”

“Looks like we need another plan,” Stevie said.

“Well, you’re the boyfriend,” Kelleher said. “Time for you to mount that white horse and ride to the rescue.” He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Bobby,” Stevie said. “I mean this with all due respect.”

“Let me guess,” Kelleher said.

“Yeah,” Stevie said. “Shut up.”

They were both grinning as they headed for the Spaghetti Factory.

There weren’t any smiles once they got to the restaurant. Susan Carol was spooning some chocolate ice cream, and
Tamara was drinking iced tea. It looked to Stevie as if Susan Carol had been crying.

Kelleher sat next to his wife, and Stevie slid in next to Susan Carol. Kelleher ordered coffee and Stevie got a Coke.

“You don’t want anything to drink?” Stevie asked.

Susan Carol shook her head. “I promised Ed no caffeine until the Olympics are over.”

They sat in silence until the waitress came back with the drinks. Then Tamara took a deep breath and said, “Well, boys, to quote Tom Hanks, ‘Houston, we’ve got a problem.’ ”

At Kelleher’s urging, Susan Carol walked them through her morning. She had tears in her eyes again by the time she finished.

Kelleher sighed.

“Look, Susan Carol, I know why you feel the way you do. Let me try to cheer you up just a little: Your dad is not a pushy stage parent or a gold digger. And lots of athletes’ parents are. He’s a good man who has been swept off his feet by these people.”

“That doesn’t make this any easier for Susan Carol,” Tamara said.

“I know,” Bobby said. “But I think it’s important to remember that you’re right in saying your dad is a little bit lost. There are worse scenarios. And his condition is probably only temporary.”

“But how do we fix it if he won’t talk to anyone
but
those people?” Susan Carol asked.

“I’ve got half an idea,” Stevie said.

They all looked at him, but got distracted by a commotion in the restaurant.

Pushing their way noisily between tables were three men. Stevie recognized the one leading the way—it was Trevor James, the USA Swimming guy who had been such a pain in Charlotte until Chuck Wielgus had reined him in. Stevie didn’t know the other two men, but they were quite large and didn’t look friendly.

James marched up to their table. Several customers who had been all but shoved aside as the trio made their way back to the booth were staring, trying to see what the commotion was about.

“Bobby Kelleher, I presume?” James said, almost in the tone of a TV cop about to make an arrest.

Kelleher took a long sip of his coffee before answering.

“Is there something we can do for you, Mr. James?”

“You can explain why I shouldn’t strip you and your friends of your credentials for unauthorized contact with a participant in the trials.”

“What?” Kelleher said. “What in the world are you babbling about?”

“I understand you picked up your credentials a little while ago,” James said. “I would suggest you look on the back and read what it says about trying to interview athletes outside the official media areas of the arena.”

“No one is interviewing me,” Susan Carol said. “Do you see a notebook or a tape recorder anywhere? These are my friends.”

“Not here, they aren’t,” James said. “They’re here to cover the trials and you’re here to swim. That makes them media and you an athlete.”

“But not human beings, I guess,” Stevie said.

James gave him a withering glare. “Make all the smart remarks you want, but we’re going to take Ms. Anderson back to her hotel now.” He nodded at the goons. “Mark and Ted are part of our security team. They’ll make sure she gets there without being harassed any further.”

Kelleher had taken his credential from his pocket and was actually reading the back of it, which surprised Stevie.

“I’m sorry, James, but you and Mike and Ike won’t be taking Ms. Anderson anyplace. And if you aren’t out of here in about fifteen seconds, I’m going to ask the management to remove you, and if they have to call the cops, that’s fine too.”

“I told you the rules, Kelleher—”

“You said I should read the back of my credential. Let me read it to you. ‘There is to be no unauthorized contact between media and athletes outside the official media areas of the arena once the meet begins. Any violation of this policy may result in the loss of media privileges and access.’ ”

“What part of that do you not understand?” James said, sneering triumphantly.

“When does the meet begin? Did the schedule change? Or does it start at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

The look on James’s face changed in an instant.

“See,” Kelleher said, holding the credential up so James
could see it. “ ‘Once the meet begins.’ What part of that don’t
you
understand? Now, are you going or am I having you thrown out?”

James’s face was bright red.

“Your time is going to come, Kelleher, I promise,” he said.

Kelleher laughed. “Yeah, you’re really scary, James. Next time show up without the goons and we’ll see how tough you are.”

One of the goons seemed offended. “Hey, pal, I’m not a goon, I’m a security consultant,” he said.

The manager had finally arrived to see what was going on.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“No problem,” Kelleher said. “These gentlemen were just leaving.”

The manager was about to say something when he saw Susan Carol.

“Susan Carol Anderson!” he gasped. “I didn’t know you were in here. Is there anything at all I can do for you?”

“Yes,” Susan Carol said, The Smile turned up to full wattage. “These men are bothering me. It would be great if they would leave.”

The manager turned to James. “I will ask you to go nicely once. After that I call the cops.”

James and the goons/security consultants headed for the door.

The manager turned back to the table. “I’m so sorry about this,” he said. “Your lunch is on me.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, but it’s very sweet,” Susan Carol said.

“No, I insist,” the manager said. “But before you leave, would you mind if I had someone take a picture of us? I’ll put it on our Wall of Fame.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Susan Carol said.

The manager all but bowed as he retreated.

“How do you think they found us?” Stevie asked.

“Easy,” Susan Carol said. “James must be J.P.’s guy with USA Swimming. I kind of thought that back in Charlotte, now I’m sure. J.P. must have called him after I left.”

“But did J.P. know where you were going?” asked Stevie.

“No … but my father did,” Susan Carol said, slumping in her seat.

“So, Stevie,” Kelleher said. “Were you saying something about an idea? We could use one.”

“It’s more a thought than an idea.… Remember in the World Series when Norbert Doyle had clearly lost his way?” he said, referring to a journeyman pitcher who had emerged as a sudden star during a World Series they had all covered. “He was a good guy—just like Reverend Anderson is a good guy. But an agent had him believing that was his one chance to really strike it rich, to take care of his kids for life. And that made him do bad things.

“What finally got through to him was seeing firsthand how sleazy his agent really was. Then he realized that the end really
didn’t
justify the means, and he snapped out of it completely.”

“I see the connection you’re going for,” Susan Carol said. “My dad needs to see firsthand that these aren’t trustworthy people.”

“Yes, but how?” Tamara said.

“Hey, I said it was only half an idea.”

“With Norbert Doyle it was pretty much an accident that we exposed his agent. The guy thought he might be losing his gold mine and freaked out,” said Susan Carol.

“So, maybe we need to freak these guys out,” Stevie said.

“The only thing that would do that would be me not making the Olympic team.”

“I don’t think we want to go to that extreme,” Tamara said.

“No,” Bobby said. “Besides, if you don’t make the team, then I think your agents will go away no matter what your dad wants.”

“So true,” Susan Carol said. “It might almost be worth it.”

Stevie looked at her to see if she was even a little bit serious. She was exactly that—a little bit serious.

“Look, I want to make the team more than anything,” she said. “I’ve worked so hard to get to this point. But I have to say: I should be more excited today than I’ve ever been in my life. And nervous. I’m neither. I’m just angry and hurt and, most of all, disappointed.”

“Which is why you need to try to forget all of this for the next few days,” Bobby said. “Your only job from now
until you finish your 200 fly on Friday night is to swim and rest—nothing else.”

“The agents aren’t allowed to schedule anything for you until the end of the meet, right?” Stevie asked.

Susan Carol nodded.

“So, Bobby’s right. You think about swimming and making the Olympic team. We’ll think of a way to convince your father between now and London that J.P. and his people only care about the money.”

“Which, if you think about it, makes sense,” Tamara said. “Their job is to make you rich, not to protect you.”

“Yeah,” Susan Carol said. “It’s my dad’s job to protect me. Or at least I thought it was.”

T
he next forty-eight hours dragged by for Stevie.

Susan Carol swam heats in the morning and semifinals in the evening for the 100-meter butterfly, but both were routine.

There was no limit on the number of swimmers who could enter an event: If you made the cutoff time established by USA Swimming, you could enter the meet. That meant there were about 1,200 swimmers in the meet even though no more than fifty had any realistic chance of making the Olympic team.

Eager beaver that he was, Stevie was at the pool when it opened on Monday morning. Halfway through the first event—the men’s 400 IM—he had figured out that there were no swimmers in the first six heats of any event who would even make it to the semifinals. When he pointed
that out to Kelleher, who had arrived about an hour later, Kelleher shook his head.

“You can’t be this cynical at fifteen,” he said. “Do you know how
good
you have to be to make an Olympic Trials cut? You put the worst swimmers in this meet in just about any other swim meet and they’re stars. If you paid some attention, you’d see there are good stories in the early heats.”

“Like what?”

“Like Wally Dicks in the 100 breaststroke. He’s forty-nine years old and he made the cutoff time in the 100 breaststroke. Do you know how amazing that is?”

“Amazing,” Stevie said. “What place will he finish?”

Kelleher sighed. “I’m going to cut you some slack on that one because I know there’s only one swimmer in the meet as far as you’re concerned. But you need to decide—are you here because you still want to be a sportswriter or because you want to go out with Susan Carol?”

That stung. Stevie loved being a sportswriter. But he supposed Kelleher had a point. Normally he’d love a story like Wally Dicks, but right now it was hard for him to care about any swimmer in the meet not named Susan Carol Anderson.

“I’ll admit I’ve got Susan Carol on my mind,” he said after a long pause. “I’m worried about her. You know how she feels about her dad, so this has to be killing her. But I
do
still want to be a sportswriter.”

“Good. Susan Carol is in heat seven of the 100 fly, which is up next. Wally’s in heat three of the 100 breast, which won’t be for a couple hours. Gives you plenty of time
to watch Susan Carol and then talk to Wally after he swims.”

“It sounds like you know him.”

“I do. He swims on a Masters team with some friends of mine. He’s a good guy. Talk to him and you’ll see.”