by John Domini
“I hear that. But see and cause like, see, now there’s another newspaper call me.”
The phone-static rose and fell, surf and undertow.
“Was the Globe. Somebody from the Globe call me.”
Kit checked the outer office. The workspaces remained quiet, the women head-down at their desks. Junior’s mother assured him she hadn’t told the other reporter anything. Missah Viddich be the only one look out for her boy till now, she not about to start trustin somebody else.
He couldn’t just go on saying thank you. But what Kit came up with—“You have to do what you think is best for you.”—tasted even flatter.
“Uh-huh well see, I ain’t talkin’ to somebody else, don’t fret. Oh see. Somebody else just lookin’ out for themself.”
Kit continued to labor toward clear thinking, ripping through the papier-mâché of the last couple of days. He asked the mother if she’d gotten the Globe reporter’s name. Mrs. Rebes recalled a syllable or two, maybe the first initial, but she hadn’t thought to make a note. Kit cut her off when she started to apologize: “Don’t, don’t …”
Too loud. The glass walls echoed.
Lowering his voice, loosening his grip on the receiver, he told her there was no harm done. “If you told them you won’t talk,” he assured her, “they shouldn’t pester you.” Meantime he faced up to the news—bad news but hardly unexpected. Sea Level had never been more than a couple of phone calls ahead of the pack. Sooner or later somebody else had been bound to find Junior’s mother. All things considered, it was better to hear it from her, the source, with her smoker’s squeak and nervous honesty. Better Mrs. Rebes than reading it in tomorrow’s paper.
“I told em,” she was saying. “Told em. Oh see, I was thinkin the whole time, ain nobody been good to me like Missah Kit Viddich.”
“That’s … thank you.”
“You done some good for me, good like in the Gospel. My boy was dead and you made him live.”
“Thank you.”
Afterwards Kit sat back from the silent phone. For the first time in a while he noticed the things he’d taped to the glass rather than the glass itself.
He’d put up a couple of table-teepees, goofy stuff he’d found in restaurants out West. One came from Wyoming, some hole in the wall where every booth had a photo of “The World-Famous Jackalope.” The shot was almost as overdone as Zia’s postcards. A cowboy in two-hundred-dollar chaps lifted a saddle onto a huge horned rabbit. They’re tough to handle, the logo read, but you won’t find any animal faster.
A gunslinger saint, riding on a fantasy. Yet now Kit sat there with a hard-to-figure new energy. He was suddenly hands-on around the workspace. He touched the table-teepee before him—and, astonishing himself, chuckled at the joke. He touched the card from Senator Croftall’s aide.
He was on his feet, his back to the workspace, looking out over Sea Level’s home block. Across the way, the turn-of-the-century brownstones had bowed window-settings that bulged on either side of their central doors. Like dark children with mumps. Like brown forearms stitched down the middle with a needle’s track. The city had its diseases, certainly. But who said Sea Level couldn’t cure one or two of those diseases? Kit felt the constriction of the Boston winter, the weight of church bells a hundred years old tolling eleven. But who said he had to keep his head down under the gray, the clockworks? With or without the Building Commission, he still had a story. With or without Leo Mirini’s ambiguous support, he still had a paper.
It did cross his mind, by the time he headed out to Corinna’s desk, that this morning’s energy might look just as foolish as Monday’s.
“Who haven’t we tried yet?” he asked her.
She blinked. Gently, editor.
“That freelancer who called me Monday,” Kit said. “That stringer with the Spotlight Team. Let’s find out who he knows.”
“You got a number for him?”
“Sure. And come to think of it there’s another Globe number I want you to try. Somebody from over there just called my source on Monsod.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Don’t worry.” Kit assured her that Mrs. Rebes wouldn’t talk. “But think about it, Corinna. It’s time I talked to that editor that came to the party. Rachel, remember?”
“You’re going to ask someone at the Globe for help?”
Over in Zia’s space, the writer had been huddling with Topsy Otaka. Kit had okayed a design inset for the disc-jockey piece. But the mention of Rachel Veutri brought Zia’s head up; Kit hadn’t been blowing smoke when he’d told Leo how the Globe woman had liked the Humans piece.
“Zia, you remember Rachel,” he said.
“I remember.”
“I think it’s time we talked to her. It’s time we got a move on.”
Zia’s eyeliner was like two equals signs. “Dylan comes back,” she said.
Kit laughed. “Aw, Z.” To think he’d once wanted to do without this live wire. To think he’d let a hambone like Leo disconnect his own wires. The next several hours seemed to Kit to be defined by Zia’s black-bordered gaze, a strict outline of what mattered. For starters, there was no reason he couldn’t make plans for two Number Twos. No reason he couldn’t line up assignments and deadlines for each of the mockups on his desk. When he’d been covering Agriculture for the Globe, he’d always had three or four pieces brewing at once. Kit had even hired researchers, and one of those researchers had been Bette. Worked that time.
Today he took pains to clarify the alternatives, figuring the difference between the two issues in column-inches, in word-counts. He did this out where everyone could see him. He set both of Topsy’s designs on one of the extra desks between his space and Corinna’s.
Not that his sense of purpose didn’t suffer the occasional blow. Things got sticky when he took Zia into his office and made it clear that the Oedipus profile might be bumped back an issue. She understood, sure. If Kit got into Monsod, sure. But the black borders of Zia’s gaze trembled, the gaze itself shifted to Kit’s jackalope, and for the next minute or so he was wondering again if he was up to this. He had Zia wait, there within his glass walls, while Corinna tried Rachel Veutri’s number again. And reaching Rachel, Kit took pains to keep his purpose in focus.
“Whatever happens,” he told the Globe editor, “we still have to lead with Monsod. We can’t go changing what we’re about after a single issue.”
Rachel—he made sure Zia knew—agreed.
“The penitentiary has still got to be one of our top-page pieces,” he said into the phone, “whether I get inside or not.”
His friend couldn’t help him, it turned out. Rachel worked more in Zia’s territory; Kit, when he’d finished his questions, passed the phone to his writer. Nonetheless both the call and the work came as a relief. A recharge. With increasing zip, Kit made assignments for himself, Kit the employee. He scheduled a couple of hours in the Harvard Law Library, he noted down follow-up questions for Mrs. Rebes. He needed to talk to her again, whatever happened.
Kit even found confirmation of Zia’s heroin habit, out of the blue at the end of the afternoon.
This happened in the office across the hall. The outfit over there, like Sea Level, was something Zia had helped bring into the building. It was a women’s counseling setup, non-profit. Another ‘60s angel struggling with plucked wings. Till now, Kit’d had no idea where Zia had heard of the organization, but according to Leo, it’d been Zia who’d found the outfit. The old man had been happy to take on a tenant whose service status helped him get a break on property taxes.
Today, Kit was called across the hall late, after four. He was the only one left at Sea Level, and across the hall, the mirror over their bathroom medicine cabinet had fallen off its hinges. A woman came asking for help, making jokes about a “man’s job.” Over there, they were down to a single staff person as well. And by that hour, Kit had more or less accepted defeat. He’d seen how it was—no Monsod inspection for Sea Level’s Editor-in-Chief. He’d seen an
d he hadn’t gotten all webbed up in imaginary layout and pasteup. Then among the call-memos on the counseling group’s bulletin board he spotted one for “Alice Mirini.”
The call was from a doctor with a Hindu name, the address a health center over in the Fenway. And here came Kit’s muckraker antennae.
“Has the methadone clinic been trying to reach Zia lately?” he asked, turning the detached cabinet mirror between his hands. “I’m afraid I’ve kept her pretty busy.”
“Oh yes,” the woman answered brightly. “Topsy and her both got all their calls before they left.”
Yet it was as if the news never laid a glove on him. As if Leo had never laid a glove on him. Of course now and again, during his remaining half-hour or so in the office, Kit found himself rocked with a spasm of anger. He’d sit there clenching his notepad, his eyes pinched shut. And he’d think of the thousand-year-old rock on Leo’s desk. The man wanted to keep Sea Level under that rock, Sea Level and his daughter both. He wanted to have his own in-house rehab. Nonetheless, by the time Kit’s grip on his spiral-top notepad began to hurt, the anger would already have passed. He’d study the fading red marks in his palm and tell himself: Come on. This latest piece of dirty business only confirmed what he’d been feeling since he’d gotten off the phone with Mrs. Rebes. Regardless of Leo’s Godfather games, regardless of Kit’s rookie groaning, there remained something in Sea Level’s staple-bound paper that wouldn’t smudge off.
Tomorrow he was going to the Law Library. He was working up an attack on the state system for awarding construction contracts. Would two hours be enough?
He was still at his notes when the phone rang again. The Senate majority leader, Forbes Croftall.
“I’m glad I found you, Mr. Viddich. I’m glad you were still on the job.”
The Senator had read Kit’s piece. His aide had passed it along. “We were both impressed, Mr. Viddich, indeed impressed.” The hum in Kit’s ears made him recheck the empty workspace: Corinna’s open desk calendar, Zia’s bright neglected postcards. “At any rate, Mr. Viddich, after reading the excerpts my aide selected for me, I thought a call to the Building Commission was in order.” Kit ran a touch-test along his desktop: pens and stapler and here was a photo of Bette on horseback. The Senator’s conversational style recalled her family’s, Brahman Brisk. “And Mr. Viddich, did you know that your piece had made the rounds at the Commission as well?” Comp copies, check. Kit hadn’t even gotten the go-ahead yet, the word he was waiting for, and already his knees were pumping, he had to force himself to listen through the sproing and wobble of the jack-in-the-box in his chest.
Just five minutes ago, the Senator said, he’d gotten a call back from the commissioners. “I’ve been empowered to extend you an invitation, Mr. Viddich. You can ride with the inspection team.”
Kit kept it under the desk, flutter—kicking like he was swimming sprints.
“Though you will have to be there before seven-thirty, Mr. Viddich. Bright and early tomorrow morning.”
The Senator went on talking, names and addresses. With that of course it was anticlimax, dishwater. Kit said thanks, formally. His legs settled. The Senator spieled on and Kit fitted the phone under his jaw, he took down the details on his appointment calendar. The thrill was durable: a tasseled puppet’s cap tickled the inside of his ribs. But he checked his wall calendar, he made sure to thank the man again.
“You know, it was your piece that did it, Mr. Viddich. We were all very impressed.”
He’d have to leave a note for Corrina, she’d have to make some calls. And the word “we” settled Kit still more. He took up his notepad again and leaned into the phone. His electricity faded into questions, possible connections, quick scribbles across yellow paper. The aide, after all, was no friend of his, a crooked preacher. Croftall was no angel either.
“I put a lot of work into that piece, Senator,” Kit tried.
“You called our attention to some very disturbing material, Mr. Viddich. Very disturbing material. Really, we can’t get on with our business until we have a look at this.”
Croftall must have his reasons. “And that’s why you’re doing this, Senator? My case deserves special treatment?”
“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, so much of what we read in the news these days is nothing but fluff. The words fade right into the paper. But your piece, well. Indeed.”
He tried to picture the senator, but he couldn’t recall anything recent on TV. “Still I do have to wonder, Senator. Such a last-minute change of policy, ah …”
“Oh now. You’ve heard of this sort of thing happening before, surely. Every once in a while, someone from the media goes along on an inspection.”
Dishwater. Names and details, but no explanations. And the Senator would like to see whatever story came out of the visit. “You could make an appointment if you’d like, Mr. Viddich. My aide has the book.” But this wasn’t the place for Kit to go after the answers he wanted. Asking would do more harm than good. He told Croftall only that he’d “like to talk, some time.” Like to scratch a few blackboards and see if the man squirmed.
Kit hung up knowing the larger motive. No mystery there. A few of the people who made policy had gotten scared. They’d decided that on this one, they better look clean. No mystery at all. Kit’s zizz returned, flutter-kick, flutter-kick. He came up with noises that made his chest-muscles ache. Between Monday and Wednesday he’d gotten into Monsod and found out Leo’s dirty little secret—pretty good. Pretty good for the first three days of the rest of his life.
He stood pumping his arms, his fists. Made it!
Unexpectedly he caught his reflection in the dark streetside windows. Batman afloat in the Gotham skies. He sat again, his breathing settling until it no longer echoed, and stared at the photo of his wife.
Chapter 3
He hadn’t expected a frisk. The Monsod security officer was young, Kit’s age. He had an athlete’s upthrust butt, an Irish delinquent’s pout. He smelled of starch. Kit missed nothing, because as soon as he and the inspectors were through the prison sally port, the guard was on him. Kit was spun against the nearest wall, his hands and feet propped apart. He lost his height advantage. The first touch forced his eyes shut. The bars of the sally port buoyed up again in the darkness, lines and bars that were also somehow layout and pasteup. His ears began singing. The guard worked with stubborn fingers, a boxy palm—always first the fingers, then the palm—probing armpits and nipples and crotch.
The officer said nothing to indicate it was over. He called in at a nearby lock-box while Kit was still grimacing against the wall.
What about the Building Commission inspectors? Why didn’t they join in the fun?
There were two inspectors, older men. Their shoulders had dropped and they appeared shrunken in down vests, rubber boots, tool belts. Kit never got to ask why they weren’t searched. The security led them into the upper courtyard of cells, and there Kit was rocked by the scent of newly-washed floors. An ammonia frisk. Also the guard warned them that he didn’t have much time. The staff was shorthanded again, he said. By then, the inmates had started up.
“Y’all gonna get naked in here, mothafucks. Nobody gets outta here.”
“End of the line, sweet butts. Might as well get down and get naked right now.”
“Oooo, check out the pretty one, check him out. The tall one.”
“The blonde? Nazi movie faggot?”
“Oooo, mothafuck heard you!”
“Nazi boy! Nazi movie!”
Kit couldn’t believe he’d let his look slip. He’d heard the horror stories, he hadn’t worn blue.
He fished out his notepad. During the ride from downtown, Kit had sketched the floor plan at basement level. He’d already looked over the blueprints on file at the Building Commission, checking the details Junior Rebes had given him. In the city van this morning, thinking ahead, making his sketch, he’d placed question marks here and there. But the page he opened to now was all about Bette.
<
br /> Before they’d made it out past the 128 beltway this morning, Kit had begun jotting notes about his wife. The inspectors wouldn’t talk, the floor plan took five minutes at most, and next thing he knew he was noting down what Bette had told him about the psychic. Apparently Kit himself had turned up at the seance. “B: ‘Not only saw u, saw yr father’.” In the van, the letters came out spiky. “B: ‘Well Some souls are inextricly linked, I spose.’” The notes had felt wildly irrelevant, of course. He’d struggled for some insight to justify them: “Bs: Frightened? Family? Too close?”
“Sweet Nazi butt, get naked. No secrets in here.”
“Mothafuck, what you lookin’ for under your coat? Lookin’ for your Daddy under there?”
Kit couldn’t get hold of his pen.
“Lighten up,” the Monsod guard told him. “Looking pissed just makes it worse.”
It was bedlam as they reached the end of the courtyard. Prisoners thrust arms through the bars, brushing thumbs with fingertips. I’ll pay, I’ll pay. Kit hadn’t expected such a game. The cons themselves were the butt of the joke here. Their grins and hipshot poses were copped from Flip Wilson’s Geraldine, from God-knows-what other drag queens—all more than halfway to self-hatred. A man on an upper bunk extended a tongue as long and yellow as Kit had ever seen, but when he wagged this tongue it signaled disgust as much as tasty licks. Bedlam.
“Whoo, sweet butt!”
“You got to understand,” the guard shouted, as he punched the lockbox to the next door, “you’re the whole party for these guys. You’re the star. They love it when the virgins freak.”
The buzz from the box cut through the uproar. The door clanked and shrieked as the guard pulled it open.
“A virgin on the premises, whoa. That’s party time.”
On the other side, the man bent to the call box and barked his code. Kit recalled the probing at his crotch.
“Plus,” the officer went on as the door groaned shut, “you should know, these last three-four weeks, these guys’ve been ready. Every day they’ve been jacked up and ready to rock.”
