Talking Heads by John Domini Page B

about after a single issue.”
    Rachel—he made sure Zia knew—agreed.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œHas 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.”
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œI’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