Or possibly he said it aloud: “It goes deeper.” With the rocking and screeching of the trolley car, it was hard to tell when he was talking to himself. Also, the line hooked south through Roxbury, the ghetto. For a few stops Kit’s was the only white face in the car, so he couldn’t be sure what the other riders were staring at.
Editors have no idea. One station actually ran the Monsod story second. Apparently some deep thinker at Channel 3 believes that a prison riot matters less than a visit from Ronald Reagan. Ronald Reagan, that doddering perennial also-ran! And not one of the local stations could spare more than five minutes for Monsod coverage.
Then there were the errors of fact. On Channel 7, a prolonged exterior shot showed smoke erupting from a smashed top-story window. According to the voiceover, this fire was in the prison workshop.
No way. Hollywood. The workshop is three stories below the window in the shot, on “D” Level. This reporter himself passed the workshop, Thursday morning. This reporter was there, the alternative. A spokesman for conscience.
Zia see. What makes a tourist a tourist, Zia see. Thursday.
I’m talking two white males, aged 25–30, cruising the downtown. Cruising that dubious urban corner — part financial district, part Boston Garden hardhat spillover — and part ours, right? Part the cruise lands of our kind. The basements where we’re trying to brew a new beginning.
Dilettantes in the demimonde. Visitors at the zoo. Thursday night, these two were trying to pass as blue boys. You know, blue boys. S&M, swat & moan. One fellow wore some sort of uniform — could that have been a prison guard’s uniform, Teresa? Santa Teresa, a security uni from a Massachusetts state pokey? — while the other guy was covered with bruises.
And I mean, bruises was just the beginning. I hadn’t seen anything like this guy since my last fight with my boyfriend. Hadn’t seen anything like those stitches in his scalp since the last time I checked out the tracks in my forearm.
The worst distortions appeared on… this reporter didn’t get the channel… it was on one of the networks, anyway. One of the networks had an interview with one of the extra security, called in for the emergency. And they wrapped this interview up neat as the last fade on The Waltons:
Q: You say that one of the prisoners was killed?
A: His door got open somehow, some kinda weakness in the materials looks like. We just had an inspection here this morning.
But enough about me. The question is, how’d I know that these two were tourists?
Hmm. There were their outfits, for starters. That guard’s uniform had potential, granted, and the name patch was a nice touch (C. Garrison, it read). But the guy carried entirely the wrong kind of accessories on his belt (a walkie-talkie? a bunch of keys?)
Kit’s head rested against the trolley window. For some moments now he’d been sitting this way, with his back to the car’s center aisle, watching the reflection of his own eyes floating over the concrete and cable of the T’s underground walls. Now suddenly that reflection began gliding over exteriors. Landscapes. Through his own dim-mirrored eyes, Kit saw duplexes and three-stories in scrappy garden blocks. He saw aluminum siding, sheeny as polyester.
The ethnic-pride suburbs. The Sons of Columbus.
The Sons, Leo called it. The club was just the place for Sea Level to begin dragging demons out into the light. Just the perfect irony. Six months ago, Kit had arranged the details of the contract at the Sons. His first visit, he’d met Zia. Later he’d returned for the final signatures, under a studio portrait of Leo and his two boys. And now here Kit was, once more meeting Zia at the Sons — in this business, you knew where your writers were. But this time he was coming to tell her she was off the paper.
She was off Volume One, Numbers Two & Three. No room for entertainment reporting in the kind of issue Kit had in mind. No room for fluff when you’re telling the whole truth.
Zia needed to hear it right away, face to face. She needed to understand, also, that she had a conflict of interest. Her father’s products had turned up in the crawlspace under E Level. Mirinex products. Pipe fittings.
Kit had spotted the stuff as soon as the Building Commission inspectors came out of the utility closet. He couldn’t miss it, really—Mirinex, Inc., embossed on the familiar U-joints and right angles. The inspectors carried them in their fists, in their Baggies. The two state employees had forgotten all about not making waves. They’d come out screaming, kicking, hacking up tear gas. And what else was Kit going to look at, if not the evidence in the inspectors’ hands? What, when under his own hands Junior’s face was disappearing?
Q: You say that one of the prisoners was killed?
A: His door got open somehow, this one con. Some kinda weakness in the materials looks like. We just had an inspection here this morning, y’know.
Q: His name was Rebes? Carlos Rebes?
A: Junior, they called him. That was his street name.
Q. And you think Junior started the trouble?
A: That’s what it looks like.
Q. He got out first?
A: When Rebes gets out, see, that’s when you have your disturbance. He starts acting up, see, that’s when it gets out of hand. I mean Junior — he had a hostage situation down there, y’know. He had the inspection team tied up. Then like, he’s the one started it, so he’s the one who goes down. That’s what it looks like.
Their outfits were part of the giveaway, no question. Part of how you could tell these were tourists. I mean, the name patch on the “prison guard” was a nice touch. C. Garrison, in clean, state-employee stitching. Nice. But the guy carried entirely the wrong kind of accessories (a walkie-talkie? a bunch of keys?) and his pants were way too loose in the crotch. Way too loose in the crotch for a self-respecting blue boy. Especially one all Irish-pouty and pumped up, like this jocko. As for the other guy, well, again, one did see potential. The bruises, for instance. And did I mention that he was lean and Scandie, rather David-Bowie-looking with his twingabled hairline, his vulpine jaw? Po-ten-tial. I loved the stains on the jacket too.
But I mean, stains don’t fool me. I mean, I saw his pants. I mean — permanent press! Office wear! Plus when it came to footgear, the guy didn’t even know about red sneakers. I heard the unmistakable squeak of L.L. Bean.
Channel Whatever’s interview continued for perhaps another half-minute. This reporter couldn’t stand to watch. This reporter knows why Junior Rebes died. It wasn’t because he “started it.” It wasn’t a matter of “sow the wind, reap the whirlwind.” No way. Hollywood. Junior Rebes died as a result of poor choices, poor building materials, the wrong people in the wrong places…
Junior Rebes died, in short, for reasons that go way beyond the grasp of a rent-a-cop and a talking head. His killing won’t fit into what the TV-news folks like to call “information units.” It can’t come down from the satellite feed in a single simple bite. When Channel Whatever finished its interview, who should come on the screen but Farrah Fawcett-Majors, the Girl of the Moment, utter hollow hype — and yet her face alone seemed more honest than the so-called “news.”
Their outfits were part of the giveaway, sure.
And uhh…the “Garrison” fellow? The beef in the uni? He uhh, he uhh… he came and went. Rather a ghostly Garrison. One moment the guard and the gangly Scandie would be deep in conversation, gesturing over fistfuls of red scotch — and the next, Mr. Uni would disappear. Blink and he’d be gone. Quick as a Ramones song. Scandie would be left like his homeboy forefather Hamlet: with th’incorporal air holding discourse.