'Joe,' he said. 'The Grand Opening isn't about Zak, it's about the Plezz. After it's over, then the real work begins, and it doesn't matter if during the course of the ceremonies the mayor gets fighting drunk, the visiting dignitaries all fall into the pool, or Zak Oto gets run into the track by a no-name from nowhere. In fact if one or all of those happen, we'd probably get much more publicity than if everything goes to plan. This time next week, the mayor will be sober, the dignitaries dry, and Zak long gone to sunny Virginia. And all of us back here will be settling down to the long hard struggle to make this place pay.'
He paused and Joe digested the speech.
'So you're not bothered about Zak?' he said finally.
'Of course I'm bothered about Zak!' said Hardiman indignantly. 'I put years into that girl, the important years. I'm looking forward to a good decade of watching her tear up the record books, and all the while I'll be thinking, it was me who got you started, girl! And I'll tell you one thing, Joe. Doesn't matter what some nutter might be saying, once Zak gets out on that track, she'll run to win. She doesn't know any other way. I guarantee that, 'cos it was me that put it there!'
Good speech, thought Joe. But when you're watching her winning Olympic Gold, won't you be thinking, it should be me there at trackside, me she's running up to with the big thank-you hug for all to see on worldwide telly?
He recalled vaguely that last summer when Zak had announced she was definitely heading west, some of the tabloids had tried to whip rumours of an acrimonious parting into a full-blown row. Both of the notional participants, however, had been at pains to play things down. Zak, looking so lovely you'd have believed it if she'd told you she could fly,
had talked about her gratitude to Jim and his total support for her decision that the American option was best for her, both personally and athletically. And Hardiman had completed the smother job by announcing that he was taking up the post of sports director at the Plezz. 'With Zak's talent, coaching her was a full-time commitment and I was never going to be able to combine it with getting things off the ground at the Pleasure Dome,' he'd said, cleverly suggesting that if any dumping had been done, he was the dumpster.
'Now let's see if I can find Zak for you. I think she'll be in the cafe with the others.'
'Others?'
'Didn't she say? Her agent, her Yank trainer, and of course big sister are all here.'
He made them all sound like a gang of freeloading hangers-on.
'So what exactly happens on New Year's Day?' asked Joe as they set off walking once more.
'Well, there's an official opening of the stadium, flashing lights, boys and girls dancing, that sort of thing, followed by the competition, with Zak's race as the highlight, of course. Then in the evening there's a civic reception in the art gallery to inaugurate the other facilities. Zak will be asked to unveil a plaque, everyone will get noisily pissed, and the rate payers will foot the bill. The luminaries of Luton are fighting for invites. If you don't have a ticket, you're dead.'
'I'm dead,' said Joe.
Hardiman laughed and pushed open a door which led into a self-serve cafe, gaily decorated in the bistro style and tiered down to a plate-glass wall which let every table have a view of the track below. There was no food on offer yet, but on the serving counter a coffee machine bubbled away.
'Won't this be the place to eat though?' said Hardiman proudly. 'Gobbling up your grub, while down there they're gobbling up world records.'
'Pretty optimistic, aren't you?' said Joe.
'We've got the fastest boards and the most generous indoor bends in Europe,' boasted Hardiman. They'll soon catch on,
anyone after a world record, Luton's the only place to be. There's Zak down there.'
Joe had already spotted the girl sitting at a table on the lowest tier with three people, two men and a woman. These three were drinking coffee. Zak was sucking on a bottle of her beloved Bloo-Joo which she removed from her mouth and waved as they approached.
'Hi, Joe,' she said. 'Glad you could make it. You guys, this is Joe I was telling you about. Joe, meet my sister Mary, my agent Doug Endor, and my coach, Abe Schoenfeld.'
Schoenfeld was late twenties, athletic of build and glistening with what looked like spray-on health. He said, 'Hi, Joe,' in a Clint Eastwood accent. Endor, who was about thirty, tall, craggily handsome, and wearing an eat- your-heart-out-paupers mohair suit, offered his hand and said, 'Glad to know you, Joe.' Sister Mary didn't even look at him. She was shorter than Joe and muscularly built. He tried to see a resemblance to Zak and couldn't.
'Grab a seat, Joe,' said Zak.
He sat. Hardiman said, 'Catch you later, Joe,' and walked away.
Sulking because he hadn't been asked to stay? Or maybe you didn't invite directors to sit in their own sports centres.
'So tell me, Joe, what's your line?' said Abe Schoenfeld.
Joe glanced uneasily at Zak. She'd intro'd him as Joe I was telling you about. Presumably she'd given the agreed story about taking pity on the out-of-work uncle of an old friend. But what work was he out of?
Zak said, 'Abe means, what's your physical thing, Joe. He reckons everyone is some sort of athlete, even if it's only second-hand.'
'Like watching, you mean?' said Joe. 'I've got a season ticket for the Town.'
'That's soccer, right? You play?'
'Used to kick a ball around when I was at school.'
'But not now? Nothing else? Tennis? Maybe not. Rock climbing? Swimming?'
'Go to a judo class,' he said.
