Free Talking Heads by John Domini Page B

nakedness stages of SAME.”
    Better, editor. Kit found his voice, enough at least to go after the inspectors. The two men first ignored him, then insulted him. “You’re so worried about the overhead pipes, kid, the door’s right there. Go check ‘em yourself.” Kit kept at it, but by and large their answers proved as simple as their tools. Metal strain, loose bolts, damage to the foundation. Kit would get a copy of the report as part of the deal. When Garrison returned, the inspectors were squatting in a huddle, in the opposite corner of the cellar. Whispering.
    Garrison headed straight for the inspectors and stopped over them arms akimbo, so Kit had to circle the pool to get a decent view. Ad stroked his bald spot, his look unhappy. It was the other inspector who spoke. He said it was time to get into the crawlspace.
    â€œFucking A, Amby.” When had the guard had gotten this other one’s name? “You got to go down there?”
    â€œCome on,” Ad said. “The word we got was, we can’t mess around.”
    â€œFucking A. ”
    With that, Kit was once more the center of attention. Ad kept on with his hair, Amby squinted, and Garrison crossed his big arms high on his chest. State employees. Of course the three men were concerned about the utility closet. The hatchway to the crawlspace was in the closet. You saw the blueprint, Viddich, you shouldn’t mind the stares now.
    â€œHey, smart boy,” the guard asked. “What’s the name of that paper you work for?”
    Mildly Kit met his glare.
    â€œWhat’s the name , smart boy?”
    â€œThe only name you need to worry about,” Kit said, “is Forbes Croftall.”
    The guard flexed his crossed arms. The move made his holster squeak. Kit recalled Leo, his chesty macho, and then one of the lines The Godfather had made famous.
    â€œCharley,” he said, “this is business.”
    Unhappy, Ad got slowly to his feet.
    â€œCharley,” Amby said.
    â€œI don’t like it,” the guard said. “The whole setup’s fucked.”
    â€œCharley, the word we got was, he’s seen the blueprints already. He knows where that hatch is.”
    He knew more than that. He knew they’d rigged the closet as a cell for Junior Rebes.
    â€œHe’s seen the blueprints already,” Amby said.
    Garrison flexed again. This time there was squeaking all along his belt. The man had plenty there, God knows. A clutch of keys the size of an axe head, a stick and a gun and a can of Mace, a radiophone as black and weighty-looking as a dumbbell. The four of them waited through a few beats more of the voodoo song from the cells. When Garrison broke away, whispering a blue streak, Kit managed to stifle the urge to flinch.
    But the guard went out the door. Out the door, for the second time in five minutes. Kit again suffered the place’s stench, a cavelike mung that went to the roof of the mouth. But the big guard returned quickly, toting an iron rod over one shoulder. A rod more than half his height, heavy enough to make his upper body bulge as he shrugged the thing down. The end rang against the floor.
    â€œHe-ey!” The voice was from one of the cells. “What’s that shit?”
    â€œHey, I’m tryin’ to jerk off in here. Trying to concentrate.”
    â€œYou whuppin’ on somebody else , Garrison?”
    â€œAw. Mothafuck bad enough down here without—”
    â€œShut up!” Garrison screamed.
    The cons shut up. Kit had his writing things pressed to his chest, his coat buttons digging into his bare wrists. A silly, overcomplicated trenchcoat. Ankle-length and double-breasted, all buckles and buttons and epaulets. Gear worthy of Byline: Ernest Hemingway .
    Byline: Fuck you. Kit pricked up his ears, confirming that the chanting and handclaps had gotten louder. And could hearing the other voices help him pick out which cell?
    â€œJunior?” He