John Domini - Talking Heads - 77

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 and 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.