Updates

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Election night 1984. Steven Blackburn was playing dirges, his prematurely silver head disappearing from the window in Booth One as he bent down to retrieve yet another depressing record. There was no jazz in his show tonight, Marisa thought as she prepped Booth Two. She was moving at hummingbird speed: interview tape on the reel-to-reel, cued up to the first cut; headphones on testing; election night news music in the cart; in the main studio, mikes positioned, paper water glasses in cupholders, phone/interview connection set.

The dirges echoed through the entire radio station. Blackburn was a life-long radical, like most people who worked at the station, but he didn't have to act as if the world had ended just because Ronald Reagan was being re-elected by a landslide.

Marisa whipped off her headphones. She had to return to the newsroom to make sure the last-minute reports were typed and the anchors were ready. Election night for her meant five updates on the hour, from 8 p.m. to midnight. Five newscasts, all new, all important. The station's unique view meant that its election coverage was also unique.

The phone buzzed. She glanced down. Three lights were on, which meant three phone lines active. Blackburn was on one, the receiver pressed between his ear and his shoulder, his headphones askew on his skull. Her City Hall feed was on the other, waiting to give the update on the results on the air; and the third was ringing. Ringing, and no one to answer, not with Blackburn talking and cueing up another dirge, and her team racing like greyhounds in the newsroom below.

She punched the button as she picked up the receiver, blurting the station's call numbers in her this-better-be-important tone.

"Someone's going to die tonight," said a nasal male voice.

"What?" she asked, but she was already talking to a dial tone. Great. All she needed was more stress. She pressed the intercom. "Steve, you been getting crank calls?" He hung up the phone, glanced at her, and leaned forward.

"No," he said. "Just people who love the music." That didn't surprise her. The station was listener-sponsored, and had been founded fourteen years before as a voice of the counterculture. Most of its original listeners still lived in town, and most of them still believed.

"I think I just got a death threat," she said.

"What?"

"Some nutjob, saying someone's going to die tonight."

"You call the cops?"

"Should I?"

They stared at each other through two separate windows, the empty studio between them. Blackburn blinked first. One of his dirges was ending.

"It wasn't very specific," he said.

"If it happens again, we'll call the cops."

"Deal." Then he slipped his headphones on, leaned into the mike, and in his silkiest voice, announced the name of the dirge he'd been playing.

Marisa got up, and went through the double sound-proofed doors, then into the main hallway. She had argued with the station manager for a receptionist on election night, but had lost. The station ran on volunteer labor. Only the station manager, the program manager, the music director and Marisa, as news director, were paid. Everyone else offered time free of charge.

She ran down the stairs to the newsroom. The basement was dark except for the light pouring out of the newsroom to her left. Broadcast voices mingled: Dan Rather on CBS, some nobody on CNN, Kyle Henderson --a volunteer she trained who now worked for the rival public radio station; and two other locals --all struggling with the latest updates. Beneath it all the dirges blared from speakers mounted against the ceiling.

The room was long and narrow, the floor covered with dirt and slush from the snow shower earlier that day. People crammed into wooden chairs, bodies hunched over stories as they worked on the built-in counter. Five radios, all at least ten years old, were on and scattered about the room. Two black-and-white televisions sat on rickety shelves overhead, and the only color television, with its cable hook-up, was tucked into the corner, near her so-called desk.

The UPI machine typed the latest, pausing to beep every few minutes with a warning that whatever it was printing was important.

She ripped off the teletype paper as she went by, depositing it on Kamal's desk so that he could go through for updates. Kamal was a good kid: an incredibly thin college freshman with dreams of becoming a reporter. But he wasn't real versed in local news --having come to the Midwest from the East --and his enthusiasm simply didn't make up for knowledge. She gave him the UPI job because it was the only thing he could do, feel useful, and stay out of her way.

Joseph, her main anchor, finished typing the last of his copy on the black 1920s manual. All the typewriters were donated: she had the only electric, and the station simply couldn't afford to upgrade to computers. Not that anyone would have known what to do with a computer anyway. Most people seemed to be intimidated by them. She knew she was.

"I think I have old stats from the governor's race," Joseph said. His brown eyes were sparkling, his dark hair mussed. He thrived on election night. He was forty, older than the rest of the crew, a medical researcher in real life, but a veteran of the station who'd been volunteering from the beginning. He saw it as a continuation of the work he had begun as one of the original members of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement in '64. She loved working with this team: Joseph; Naomi his co-anchor, an attorney who specialized in Fair Housing; and Rob, a freelance writer who, she suspected, made most of his living selling cocaine. Rob did commentaries that were sharp, penetrating, and to the point. Several other local stations had tried to steal him, but he felt that leaving his volunteer post would be like giving up his soul.

"Compare what you've got with Kamal," Marisa said, "and remember that we'll be getting a live update from City Hall anyway."

City Hall was election central. All the stats poured in there, and the reporters on site used the press room to feed the information back to their stations.

"Kamal," she said. "Make sure you monitor one of the local TV stations for updates, preferably Channel Six. They at least have real newspeople instead of bubbleheads." A few other volunteers were also in the room, typing furiously on their manuals as well. Election night was always crazy, always busy. The station was located right in the middle of downtown, and she had lined up all the candidates to do drop-ins throughout the night. The first would arrive --she glanced at the oval clock with the sweeping second hand that was perched above the newsroom door --within the half hour.

"Holly," she said to the curly haired volunteer sitting toward the back. "Take your typewriter upstairs and sit at reception. Here's the list of the people we're expecting. Whenever someone shows up, put them in the studio and buzz me."

"Will do, boss," Holly said, picking up the twenty-pound typewriter. As Holly passed, Marisa shoved the list into the platen. Then Holly disappeared out the door.

Holly had worked three other election nights, including the disaster in which the governor had waited for fifteen minutes in the entry before someone noticed him. They managed to catch him just before he headed into the night.

Someday, Marisa thought. Someday she'd work at a big fancy station with lots of money and photos of its most famous anchors in a big, glitzy reception area. She would get a real salary, not the measly thing that only allowed her to rent a tiny one bedroom apartment and required her to budget everything, including meals. But it would also mean losing control to advertisers, allowing her broadcasts to be censored by the brass, and never hearing another dirge again.

"On in two!" Marisa said.

Joseph was up, copy in hand. Kamal handed him a few UPI pages which Marisa snatched so that she could doublecheck them. She pulled papers out of three different typewriters while the writers were screaming, "No! No! Not yet!" and took Naomi by the arm, helping her out of her chair. Naomi already had ink on one cheek. Her normally neat hair was tousled, and her lawyer's makeup long gone. Marisa was glad they were radio: her team could never manage the neatness required for television.

"Upstairs, now," Marisa said.

Joseph and Naomi left. Marisa punched line two.

"Still there?" she asked.

"Still here," Douglas, her City Hall reporter, replied.

"Anything good?"

"Not that we didn't expect."

"Keep holding. You'll be on in less than five."

"You said that fifteen minutes ago."

"Are you missing stories by hanging on the line?"

He laughed. It was a joke among the real reporters. Election nights were guaranteed boredom mixed with statistics. "No."

"Then stop bitching." She punched the hold button and hung up the receiver. While she had been talking to him, she had been checking the copy. She threw out one UPI story, hand-wrote the last line for the three stories she pulled out of the typewriters, and arranged the entire update by anchor, putting their names on the top of each page. Then she ran up the stairs, two at a time. She got her exercise here, and for free.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she glanced at the clock. Forty-five seconds until air, and she hadn't done a sound check. The downfall of volunteer labor was that very few volunteers had the time or talent to learn the fine art of engineering. Even fewer learned how to do complex jobs like a regular newscast. Only three people in the entire station could do something that required finesse, like election nights --and she was one of the three.

"Marisa?" Holly said from the reception desk.

"Make it fast," Marisa said as she took the last few stairs.

"Councilman Adams is in the studio. I set him up and --"

"Is he on mike three?"

"I think so."

"Good." Marisa pushed open the studio door.

"And," Holly said with emphasis. "I got a death threat." Marisa stopped, glanced at the clock. Thirty seconds. Damn. "It'll have to wait."

"It sounded serious."

"Someone will die tonight?" she asked.

"How'd you know?"

"I got one too. Call the police. Do not use the emergency number. Ask them what they want to do about it."

"Okay."

Marisa pushed through the studio doors, handed the divided copy to Joseph and Naomi, waved at Councilman Adams, and was at her seat behind the board with ten seconds to spare. She pushed the pot down for a spot check.

"I need levels. Councilman?"

Adams was a pro. He gave her a count with his stentorian voice, and she miked him. She didn't even have to test Joseph and Naomi. She knew their levels instinctively. She double-checked everything, made sure no one touched the reel-to-reel, then watched Steve Blackburn. He grinned at her through the double windows. They both sat higher than the anchors and the councilman. Blackburn introduced the election update, then pointed at Marisa, who punched the music cart. As the dopey piano lead announced election coverage, Joseph and Naomi turned toward her. Marisa punched on their mikes, eased the music pot down, and cued them at the precise moment when the levels matched.

Joseph and Naomi did their opening routine like the veterans they were, and Marisa lost the next fifteen minutes to opening mikes, cueing phoners, and running tape.

When she finished the segment, and cued Blackburn who started another dirge, her mind was on the next update. She noted Holly's absence from the front desk, but thought little of it. Not until Councilwoman Bader, a former volunteer at the station, poked her head into the newsroom.

"What? Still no greeting committee on election night?"

Marisa had been on the phone with Douglas, debating whether or not to send one of their rookies to the governor's campaign headquarters --and she had been watching the returns on Channel Six --while she was fielding questions from Joseph about the phone interview he was trying to set up with his own personal Deep Throat at the Pentagon.

Marisa put a hand over the receiver. "Sorry. Holly is supposed to be up there. Just head into the studio. You know what to do. And thanks."

The councilwoman grinned and went back up the stairs. She had gotten her start in politics at the station, probably gotten bit with the fever on an election night, and she knew how things went.

"Kamal," Marisa said. "Did Holly have to check out early?"

"She didn't say."

Or no one noticed. Working with volunteers was the bane of her existence.

"Go upstairs and man the desk. We have too many important people filtering in and out tonight to leave it empty."

"But the UPI --"

"I can handle that," Marisa said and thought, _along with every other goddamn thing_. "You just answer the phone, watch the door, and greet everyone who comes in like they're royalty, even if you have no clue who they are."

"Yes, ma'am." He ran up the stairs.

On the bright side, she thought, volunteers were enthusiastic --at least the new ones. She finished up her phone conversation, glanced through the wire, assigned a few more last-minute stories, told Joseph to forget the Pentagon mole (who seemed convinced that Reagan would bomb Nicaragua that night), argued with him for a few moments, allowed him to get five minutes of tape, in case the bombing actually happened which she knew it wouldn't, and then went upstairs to set up the studio for the next update.

She set up the studio again, checking water for the anchors, replacing the other waters. Councilwoman Bader folded her hands, grinning as she watched.

"Nice to know nothing changes around here."

Marisa grinned back, and pulled the mike closer to Bader's mouth. "You going to be witty?"

"I wasn't up for re-election. I can afford to."

"Good." Then she went back into the booth.

"Marisa?" Blackburn's tinny voice sounded through the intercom. She went to the board, and pressed the intercom button. He was watching her through the double windows. She was glad Bader was looking down. Blackburn looked even worse than he had when the evening started.

"What?"

"I think I just heard from your crank."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. He said something about death and politics."

"I don't have time for this, Steve," Marisa said.

"It was creepy. It was weird."

"Creepy, weird, how?"

"Like a threat."

"I told Holly to call the cops. Did she do it before she left?"

"I didn't see her leave."

The hair rose on the back of Marisa's neck. "What do you mean?"

"She got me a glass of water, and said she'd be back. I thought she was delayed at the desk." Marisa shook her head. She didn't like how this felt, and she didn't have time to deal with it. "She's been missing for the last half hour. I thought she went home. You know how it is." Blackburn nodded. He'd been at the station for years. Volunteers often had emergencies at home, or forgotten study dates, or other pressing issues that made them leave in the middle of their shifts. Many left without telling anyone. Because they were volunteers, such behavior was tolerated --unless it became too common.

"I don't have to do anything for fifteen minutes," he said. _Except find better music,_ she thought. "I can look for her."

"Would you? Her home number's on the news log in the basement."

"No prob."

Marisa let go of the intercom, glanced at the digital clock on the board, and realized she was behind. She finished setting up the booth, then went downstairs. The pundits had already called Reagan's landslide, and Rob was sitting in front of CNN. He had three pencils in his thinning red hair, and his taped glasses had slid down his nose.

"Can I do my commentary this update?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I've got two live interviews, a phone connection, and too much information to report."

"But this is perfect. With them calling Reagan, I'd be timely." She glanced at him. "What're you going to say?"

"You can read it."

"You know I can't." Rob's copy was always so messy it looked like hieroglyphics. He leaned back in the ancient, squeaky office chair. "Okay. I have it boiled down to one minute. It's satire."

He said that because on her first newscast as news director, she hadn't been listening closely, and she had chewed him a new asshole for making up lies about Nancy Reagan. _It's a joke!_ he had cried. _A joke!_ Since then, he'd figured Marisa hadn't had a sense of humor.

"I'm doing a piece on why Sylvester Stallone should run in 1988. He's short, he's good-looking, he's powerful --"

"He can't enunciate," Joseph said, while he was typing.

" --Ah," Rob said. "But he can take orders just like Ronnie can. This is the era of the celluloid president. Imagine Stallone getting on the podium to the _Rocky_ theme --"

"Do we have that in the library?" Marisa asked.

"I don't know," Rob said.

"Check. We'll run your commentary next hour, and when the time comes, you'll cue me to run that theme music. It'll work."

"Brilliant!" Rob said, and ran out the door. She grabbed more UPI copy.

"Brilliant," Joseph echoed. "You managed to make him forget he wanted to go on this time." She shrugged. She'd been dealing with Rob for a long time. "Everybody upstairs," she said. She glanced at Channel Six's graphic of the races. Still no surprises. Thank heavens. She had too small a crew for surprises.

This newscast was brighter than the last. In addition to Councilwoman Bader, Senator George was supposed to show. He was always late, and Marisa made certain he wasn't billed in the intro. She followed her anchors upstairs, noted Kamal still at the reception desk, and told him to send in George when he showed. Kamal nodded.

Then the three of them went inside.

Blackburn was still a bit pale from his strange phone conversation --or perhaps it was the continuation of the Reagan Revolution that was making him ill. He certainly didn't like the way the country was going. None of them did. Hate mongering, talk of war, calling the Soviet Union the Evil Empire. For all of Rob's fun about the celluloid president, there was just enough truth in it --just enough continuation of the bad old policies --to make her nervous.

After Blackburn had cued her out, he disappeared from his booth, and she ran her newscast. Kamal buzzed her when Senator George arrived, and Naomi was positioning his mike as he sat down. No on-air glitches, even though the City Hall line dumped just after Douglas's update. More bullets dodged. Three more newscasts to go. They'd shut down at midnight, and everyone would go to the nearest bar, too wired to sleep.

Senator George raced off to his next interview without a goodbye. Joseph forgot his copy in the studio as usual, and Marisa cleaned up before going downstairs. Blackburn was in his booth on time, but his pallor had grown. Marisa was beginning to wonder if he was seriously ill. He put Mozart's _Requiem_ on the turntable --just the "Kyrie" and the "Lachrimosa" --and stood. Marisa opened the door to his booth. "You know, this is the strangest jazz show I've ever heard."

"Found Holly," he said, his voice flat.

She had forgotten. God, how could she forget all the time? It was as if the only part of the world that existed were the numbers, the voices, the 15-minute updates.

"Was she at home?" Marisa asked, even though she knew Holly hadn't been, not from the look on Blackburn's face.

"She was out back, in the parking lot, face down. Between two cars." His voice was rough. "She'd have frozen to death if I hadn't found her. I don't know how long she was out there."

"No more than an hour," Marisa said, knowing in these temperatures, Holly wouldn't have survived more than a few hours. They had been lucky.

"I called an ambulance."

"And the police?"

He nodded. The _Requiem_ continued over the speakers, going past the announced "Lachrimosa."

"Shit," he said and slipped into the booth. Marisa followed. He was bent over a pile of LPs leaning up against the turntable.

"You know," she said. "You might want to go back to scheduled programming." He shook his head. "The police said not to do anything different."

"The police came here?"

"They're probably still here."

Interviewing people. Getting in the way of her updates. She felt a tug --a pull she hadn't felt in a long time. The calls frightened her, and she liked Holly, but for ten years, Marisa had lived for the shows. They had to continue as well.

She left the booth without saying anything. The double doors closed behind her. Kamal was still at reception, looking flustered. A policeman, short and a bit stout, stood at the top of the stairs. Marisa ignored him and ran down the stairs. Sure enough, three officers were in the newsroom, and no one was working.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but we have a newscast to put on." One of the officers turned around. He was slender, with dark eyes and a sharp chin. He held his cap under his arm, revealing tousled black hair. "You must be Marisa Turner."

"Yes," she said. "Look, I am as worried about this as anyone, but --"

"I understand you took the first call."

"Yes, but --"

"When was this?"

She straightened. She wouldn't get sidelined. "I'll answer questions in a moment. But I need to keep order here too. You told Blackburn to proceed as if nothing were happening. The only way we can do that is to put on a newscast in --" she glanced at the clock " --forty minutes."

"I appreciate your problem, Ms. Turner, but --"

"No, I don't think you do. Just give me a moment, and then I'll talk to you." She gave instructions in rapid-fire, afraid that this officer would interrupt her, that the police would shut them down entirely. Joseph was to go over copy if she was gone; Naomi to double-check the studio; Rob to talk to Douglas at City Hall; otherwise everyone else should continue their jobs, make sure the updates were finished, and no stories were repeated. "And for godsakes, make sure Kamal knows the mayor is due at five after the hour."

They all nodded, even one of the officers, which made her realize just how strident her voice had become. She turned to the officer who had spoken to her.

"All right," she said. "Now I'll answer questions, but in the office, not here." He raised an eyebrow, but followed her. The office wasn't really an office at all, but a series of desks placed at random in the concrete basement, along with boxes of old aircheck tapes, and file cabinets used as room dividers. The area was dark, the only illumination coming from the stair lights and the thin light from the newsroom. She hit a switch, and the flourescents fluttered on. The place looked almost normal. There was never any daylight here. In the winter, she would enter the station in the dark and emerge in the dark, as if she were living a night that would never ever end.

"All right," she said, perching on the program manager's desk. "I got the first call at 7:55 and thought it was a prank. I asked Blackburn if he'd been getting calls like that, but he said no. We discussed it for a moment, thought it was too vague, and then I went back to work."

"Seven-fifty-five," the officer said. He was the only one who had followed her.

"Where are the others?" she asked, realizing that they were gone.

"Looking to see who else is in the building," he said. He was leaning against the music director's desk, his posture mimicking hers. "I hadn't realized it was so large."

"It used to be a warehouse." She extended her hand toward the boxes. "As you can see, we haven't really made good use of the space."

"Seven fifty-five," he said again. "You know this precisely?"

"Actually, Officer --" she paused, peered at him, and then frowned. "You realize you never properly introduced yourself."

His eyebrows went up again. She had never seen anyone do that in real life. She had always thought it a television affectation. "I did in the newsroom, but you weren't there yet." She crossed her arms. "So...?"

"Guy Bergen. Detective Guy Bergen. You want my badge number?" She shook her head. "Identification will do. How's Holly?"

"Unconscious, beginnings of frostbite. It'll take some time before we get a report."

"But you thought it worthy to talk with us about it?"

"Considering she was bashed over the head with a blunt object as yet undetermined, yes, I do." He crossed his arms as he said that. "How did you know it was seven fifty-five?"

"Seven fifty-five and thirty seconds, to be exact," she said. "And, even though I don't wear a watch and I have my back to the clock, I can tell you that it's now 9:21."

"No seconds?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I can't do seconds when my back is turned."

"How do you do minutes?"

"Every one counts when you're doing this kind of newscast. We only have forty-five minutes to get the next show on the air, and it has to be interesting enough, and different enough to keep the regular listeners tuned in. It'd be easier if we expected a different audience every hour, but Blackburn's jazz show is popular --"

"I have no idea why," Bergen muttered. "It's depressing."

" --and it runs until midnight. The arbitrons show that people don't tune out, and our own research has shown that people go out of their way to tune him in."

Bergen's gaze was baleful.

"He normally plays a bit more Charlie Parker. Some Ella. The dirges are new." She had no idea why she felt the need to explain herself.

"So, what did your caller say?"

She told him. She told him everything she could remember, from her call to Holly's. "I told her to call the police. The non-emergency number."

"She did. We logged it in," he said.

"Blackburn got another call."

"I know," Bergen said. "How many phone lines do you have?"

"Eight," she said, "all different numbers."

"Accessible from every phone?"

She nodded. "But the call wasn't internal."

"How do you know?"

"I was looking at the phone when I picked up. Line one was Douglas on hold at City Hall. Line two was Blackburn, talking to some listener. I picked up line three."

"Do the lines roll over?" Bergen asked.

"Yes," she said.

Blackburn was now playing Dixieland funeral music. It was a bit more upbeat, but heavy on the low brass. Bergen glanced at the overhead speakers. "He seems like a strange guy." Marisa shrugged. "No stranger than the rest of us."

"Can you be sure it wasn't him on the line?"

Her smile was small. "I specialize in voices, Officer."

"Detective," he said.

She ignored his correction. "I would have recognized his."

"Even if he had disguised it?"

"It's not that easy for a person to disguise his voice. Basic inflections remain the same." She glanced behind her at the clock. "Are we done?"

"You're not worried about your friend Holly?"

"Yes," she said. "But I can't do anything. And I have a job here."

"Would it matter if the station went off the air for the night?" Her hands gripped the desktop. He didn't understand the daily struggle, the meetings, the requests for money. For the last ten years, her entire life had been organized around keeping the station on the air. To lose tonight, along with the publicity around Holly's attack, might be a blow that the station couldn't recover from.

"Yes," she said.

"Hmm." He picked up a pencil, one of the gimmes a volunteer had designed. It had the station's call letters on it and last spring's fundraising slogan: _The Aural Majority_. Marisa shifted. She didn't know why she was waiting for him to excuse her, as if she were a student facing the principal. "Are other stations getting these calls?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"The TV stations?"

"No."

"The newspapers?"

"No."

"The campaigns? The political offices?"

"No."

"Just us?"

He nodded.

"And you think the calls represent a real threat now that Holly was attacked?"

"Don't you?"

She didn't know. "We get crank calls a lot."

"And people attacked in your parking lot?"

"Not so much."

He frowned at her, apparently thinking she was joking. She wasn't.

"It's not a good neighborhood. We had a lot of trouble a year ago when we first moved into the building. Most of our volunteers are cautious now, but we still have the occasional mugging." He was watching her more intently than anyone had in a long time. Did he think she was lying? Making excuses? Maybe she was. She could feel the clock ticking behind her, the precious seconds disappearing as they talked.

"Is that what you think this is? A mugging? Coincidentally timed with a crank call?"

"I don't think anything," she said, venturing another look at the clock behind her. It was 9:35, just as she suspected it was. Less than a half hour to make sure the newscast went on without a hitch. "I've been concentrating on work."

"I need to talk to your people."

"Fine," she said. "As long as it's one at a time, and not between 9:55 and 10:20."

"I hope to be done by then." He set the pencil down. "A lot of important people come through here on election night, don't they?"

She froze. No wonder the police had come in full force. "Yes."

"Who do you have lined up for the rest of the night?"

She gave him a verbal list, thinking about the possible disaster as she did so: five state representatives, a congressman, a few more city council people, and the mayor.

"The governor often comes here, doesn't he?"

Her hands were cold. "Only if he wins. He knows he has a strong constituency among our listeners."

"I'm going to stay here for a while," he said. "Then when I go, I'll be leaving a few of my men in the station and the parking lot."

"There's more going on than a few calls and a woman getting mugged, isn't there?" Marisa asked softly. He stared at her for a moment, as if he were judging whether or not he could tell her this next. Finally, he said, "Friends of cranks usually don't call the police with warnings." The chill she had been feeling got deeper. "You have no idea about the intended target?"

"None," he said. "Only that whatever will happen will happen here, tonight."

"Maybe Holly scared the person off."

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe she knew him."

It was 9:45. Marisa could feel it without even looking at the clock. She had to check on the broadcast.

"Do you think that person is here, now?"

"Possibly."

"Someone working here?"

"You don't exactly have tight security."

"We have no security," she said. "But we do have the benefit of only one door."

"I'd like to check storage areas and offices," he said.

"I'll give you my keys." She got up and headed back to the newsroom. It was a mass of chaos: Joseph sitting on top of the desk, calling out stories; Rob on the phone, one hand pressed against his ear so that he could hear the person on the other end; Naomi scanning copy; and two volunteers typing frantically. The UPI machine was beeping, some analyst on CBS was talking about the continuation of the Reagan Revolution, and Channel Six was declaring the governor a winner.

Marisa dug in her purse and found her wad of keys.

"Great security," Bergen said.

"We're a listener-sponsored station," she said. "Our mandate makes us open to the public."

"And theft."

She shook her head. "If we had anything to steal, the station manager would have sold it for parts a long time ago."

He clutched the keys in his hand. "Care to show me which goes where?" She glanced at the newsroom. "Love to, but can't."

He nodded and disappeared. She took the phone from Rob, turned away from him, and said into the receiver, "Is anyone at the governor's?"

"D-Douglas," one of the rookie volunteers answered, sounding as if he were going to pee his pants at any moment.

"He left City Hall?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent." She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Tape any incoming calls. Douglas should be calling with Channel Six announcing." She moved her hand. "Who's handling the returns at City Hall."

"I --I am."

Damn. She hated being understaffed. "All right. You're doing the 10:05 update. Make sure you have the numbers written down on a piece of paper, and don't worry about sounding good. This is live radio. You're going to hold from now until we go on the air."

"Okay," the rookie said.

Marisa punched the hold button and put the receiver down. "Who was that?" she asked Rob. He shrugged. They'd have to wing it at 10:05. "Say, Marisa," he said softly, leaning toward her, "how long are the cops gonna be here?"

"Until we're done, I guess." She frowned. She didn't know what Rob was worried about. There were too many old hippies at the station for anyone to talk about his side business. No one would narc. "You're going to have to talk to them."

"Can you put it off?"

"I don't think so. But you probably can. Just look busy all the time." He grinned. "I'm good at that."

She smiled back. "I know." Then she turned to Joseph. "Is the studio set up?"

"Naomi was supposed to do that."

Marisa raised her eyebrows in query at Naomi. Naomi cursed, which Marisa took for a no. Marisa hurried up the stairs. One cop sat near Kamal at the desk. Kamal was going over some other copy -finally learning to look busy. Through the small square windows that looked out onto the street, Marisa saw another cop, blowing on his gloved hands and rocking from foot to foot. It was cold out there. Winter had come early this year. Holly probably would have frozen to death a few feet away from them all. Marisa let that thought go in. Holly. Her friend. A woman she'd worked with for years and years. A woman she'd relied on. Marisa would have felt terrible if she died. Marisa already felt awful that she had been hurt. Marisa allowed herself a small shudder and then hurried into the studio. She certainly hoped there wasn't a nut around the station. She hoped she had been right --that it was a simple mugging. She glanced through glass at Blackburn, who was putting another record on the turntable. The Dixieland had segued back into some more dirges, mixed with choral requiems more suited to the morning classical shows than the jazz programs. He didn't see her stare.

Was Bergen right? Could Blackburn have done something like that? Her sense of him was that he didn't have a violent bone in him. She trusted those senses, always had.

She set up the studio, checked the reel-to-reel inside the booth, and got the cart ready. She didn't have time for any other checks, even though all five microphones would be used, as well as the phone. It was 9:55. She ran downstairs, hoping that her crew was as good as she thought they were. As she stepped into the newsroom, the phone rang.

Joseph picked it up, and his mouth immediately went slack.

"Get Bergen," Marisa said to one of the volunteers as she pressed the record button on the phone machine. Then she slowly punched the same phone line that Joseph was on, careful to shut off her receiver before she picked up.

"...politics," the same strange nasal male voice was saying. "It kills." And then he hung up. Joseph glanced at her across the room. His skin was ashen. Marisa glanced at the clock. 9:59. Joseph followed her gaze. They swore in unison, and grabbed their materials. "Tell Bergen we've got tape," she yelled to one of the rookie volunteers as she sprinted up the stairs.

Two congressmen stood beside the police at the door. They were looking serious in their suits.

"Get them in the studio," she yelled at Kamal as she passed. She ran through both sets of doors, and landed in her chair as Blackburn introduced the update. She punched the music cart as she potted it up, then she slipped on her headphones, nodding at the precise moments for her anchors to begin their lead-ins.

They did it flawlessly, despite Joseph's continued paleness and Kamal's loud banging as he got the congressmen settled. Naomi signaled for quiet, and finally Kamal left the room. Marisa was halfway through the phone interview with the rookie at City Hall (named David Davis. She had to remind herself to give rookies with weird names on-air names. No one would believe this one) when Bergen poked his head in the door.

"Not now," she said.

Naomi sliced a finger across her neck, meaning that she had no more questions for the rookie.

"I hear you got a tape of the caller," Bergen said.

Marisa shut off the phone pot, and brought up the congressmen's mike. She waited to hear their hellos to Joseph and Naomi before answering Bergen. "It's on the machine attached to the phone marked #2 in the newsroom."

"Great," he said, and let himself out.

Too late, she remembered that Rob was supposed to do his commentary this hour. Where had he gone to? He should have come up the stairs with them. Not that it mattered. She didn't have the theme music from _Rocky_ cued up anyway.

The congressmen finished as Kamal was leading two county commissioners into the studio. There was some loud greetings, which she managed to pot down, and one hefty thump against the mike table which probably sent listeners bouncing out of their chairs. Then the interviews continued. At fourteen after, Marisa gave them the signal to wind down. They did --Joseph managing some cogent analysis of the tight Fourth District city council race --and Marisa brought up the music. She shut off all the mikes, and said, "We're off."

The anchors stood, spoke to the politicians still in the room, while Marisa leaned back in her chair. She hadn't done an engineering stint like that in a long time. She was covered in sweat. The 11 o'clock update would be the crucial one: most of the votes that would be counted this night would be in, and it would be pretty clear where the races would end up. The midnight report would simply be a wrap-up. If she could keep 11 o'clock on track, everything would be fine.

She left the studio to find Bergen waiting for her. He took her arm and led her toward the mailroom in the back.

"Hey," she said. "I've got to --"

"Did you listen to that tape?"

"I only heard the last few seconds, then I had to come up here."

"It was filled with a lot of invective, some of it personal toward the person on the phone. Who answered?"

"Joseph," she said. She was cold again.

"He works for the university, doesn't he?"

"The medical school," she said.

"He was told that his history would come out, if he weren't careful, and that a man like him should know how dangerous political opinions were. A man who acted on them often got killed." Marisa frowned. "You're kidding."

Bergen shook his head. "I want you to listen. There's a lot of voice there. I want to see if you can identify it."

"Let's see if the entire newsroom can. A dozen ears are better than mine," she said. She led him into the music library, filled with albums stacked alphabetically by category, and beginning to fill with CDs. More speakers hung on the walls. Now Blackburn was playing Gregorian chant, which sounded even more funereal than the dirges he had played earlier. She stepped around a pile of boxes and went down the back stairs. Bergen followed.

She didn't say anything to him as they went past the dark offices into the newsroom. She went to the reel-to-reel, flicked the broadcast switch, rewound the eighth of an inch of tape, then turned to her people.

"All right," she said. "If any of you even think you recognize this voice, speak out." Bergen shook his head slightly, then sighed. He might have had a system in which this would go slowly, but she didn't have time for it. She didn't have time for anything. Marisa hit "play." The nasal voice, sounding even tinnier filtered through the phone line and the tape, was speaking.

_ ...know you were in Berkeley. Heard you preferred LSD. What would the university say if they knew one of their prime researchers was a big dope fiend? The war on drugs has heated up, my friend, and people go to jail for a little maryjane in their big, beautiful houses. Like the stuff you scored a few weeks ago.

_ Joseph's face was red.

..._You of all people should know that politics is personal, and now it's going against you. Conservative and difficult. Hell, even your associations at the station could get you killed. But you always knew that, didn't you? From the sixties to the eighties, the only uniform thing about politics: it kills. _ Beads of sweat stood out on Joseph's forehead. Marisa felt chills go through her. Bergen was watching all of them, but other than Joseph, no one else looked deeply distressed. They were all clearly disturbed by the voice.

"Anyone?" Marisa asked.

No one responded, although several people looked surreptitiously at Joseph. Bergen's mouth was a thin line. "I've already talked to Dr. Hecht. If anyone else wants to speak with me in private, I'd be willing to listen."

Then he reached down and removed the tape from the reel. He held it up to Marisa. "You don't mind," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"I was going to offer it myself," she said.

His smile was small. Then he left the newsroom, but she had a hunch he hadn't gone very far. She shook out her shoulders, feeling the tension, hearing her back crack. She glanced at Channel Six, saw how their stats had changed, wondered if this night was ever going to end. Then she turned to the UPI machine.

Rob put a hand on her arm. "We missed my commentary."

"I know."

"I couldn't find the _Rocky_ theme."

"Did you ask for help?"

"Yeah. I don't think we have it."

She knew they did. She had used it on a newscast before. "It's --" she started to explain, then remembered she was dealing with Rob. He couldn't find anything in the music library. She had known better than to send him. "I'll get it."

He followed her across the dark offices and up the stairs like a lost puppy. They had done this so many times over the years that she wondered why she hadn't gotten the album herself. It was a sign of how distracted she was, how overworked she felt, just how much strain she was under on this long, long night. The soundtracks were at the end of the second aisle. She walked down it, following the alphabet. The _Rocky_ album was extended slightly, as if someone had pulled it out, and then decided against it. She grabbed it and turned. Rob was pressed against her. He had a strange look in his eyes. She felt a slight frisson of fear. She had never seen him quite like this.

He put a finger to his lips, then glanced around. "I know who's making those calls," he whispered. "He's been making them to me at home."

Marisa let out an exasperated breath. "Then tell Bergen."

"I can't!" Rob ran a hand through his hair. "It's Tim, a guy I met when I was in Mexico. He's been supplying me."

Marisa's eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"People don't harass other people for nothing."

"I owe him money." Rob owed everyone money. It was one of his charms. He lived on a meager budget and supplemented it by selling drugs to his friends, writing term papers for college students, and occasional articles for the independent weeklies in town. The rest of the time, he volunteered at the station.

"How much money?" Marisa said.

"Not enough for him to do this!"

"How'd he know about Joseph?"

"Tim lived with me for a while. He knows about the station." And everyone in it, she supposed. Rob was a good, and sometimes naive, storyteller. She never told him secrets because he blabbed them, just like he blabbed about his own illegal dealings.

She asked, "Did this Tim hit Holly?"

"Probably." Rob winced. "He came after me a couple of times." She remembered. Two weeks ago, Rob had come in covered with bruises. A month before that, he'd had a black eye. He hadn't explained either incident, but he had let Joseph look him over.

"You think he's out back?"

"Not with the cops here. Maybe not even after hitting her. He's not exactly the courageous type." She stared at Rob for a moment. "So why'd he call again?"

"So I'd know. There are other ways to hurt my friends."

She felt her mouth tighten. "You tell Bergen, or I will."

"He'll arrest me."

"Probably."

"I can't afford to be arrested."

"You can't afford to be killed."

Rob bit his lower lip. "Can it wait until I finished my commentary?" He wasn't going to say a word to Bergen. She knew it from the look on his face. Rob would give his commentary and then he would sneak out the door when no one was looking, and either make good his escape, or die in the snow like Holly nearly did.

"Sure," Marisa said. "Do your commentary. You're on at 11." He smiled at her. "Thanks," he said. "I knew I could count on you."

"I'm a regular brick," she said dryly and took the record into the booth. It took her a few minutes to cue up the theme, to find the right selection to play beneath one minute of commentary. It took her longer than usual because her hands were shaking.

It was an unspoken rule of the station: no squealing. There were draft dodgers still wanted by the federal government. There were minor drug dealers, like Rob, and minor drug users, like Joseph. There were members of the SDS and the Weather Underground who had foresworn violence in their old age, but still had outstanding warrants. No one spoke of it, except in whispers. Everyone figured people's business was their own. Current crimes were victimless. Past crimes were past. Some even saw volunteering at the station as community service, a form of non-government regulated atonement. She bowed her head and put her shaking hand over her eyes. If Rob knew the guy behind the threats, and the police thought the threats credible enough to station people here on a crazy night like election night, then Rob was in danger. Holly had already been hurt. Rob wasn't going to report this. But Marisa could.

And she had until 11:15 to do so.

"Dammit," she whispered.

She wouldn't lose her job, but she would lose her credibility, with her friends. This was the last bastion of left-wing idealism, and the rules were simple: everyone had a right to live his own life his way; and no one narced. Not ever.

She double-checked the studio, then went back downstairs. Her mind was so far away from the election that she wasn't sure she would ever be able to think about it again. If Rob died because she remained quiet, she wouldn't be able to live herself. Rob was a gentle man, one who couldn't survive prison. She knew it, and she knew with the Reagan Administration's tough drug laws, Rob probably wouldn't stand a chance of going free. He was the kind of person the Feds loved to make an example of.

But Bergen wasn't a Fed. And prison wasn't as bad as dying. Nothing was. This Tim had already shown he didn't care about the lives of Rob's friends. He had nearly killed Holly, and he had threatened Joseph. Marisa's stomach turned. She loved this place. She loved it because it wasn't just a radio station. It was, in its own way, home. It survived on spit and polish and ideals. And the ideals were important, they were something that gave the station its lifeblood. Listeners pledged money because they heard news they didn't hear on any other station, music they didn't know existed, interviews with people who couldn't get air time anywhere else. All because of the lack of commercial support, and a driving vision that said even the smallest voice had to be heard.

She let herself out of the studio, and of course, Bergen was there, waiting for her. All her adult life, she had hated cops, feared them and hadn't trusted them. They were Establishment, conservative, pigs. They didn't get it, and they never would.

His gaze met hers. He was smarter than she wanted him to be, and he was her age. He understood the arguments, even though he had chosen the other side.

"What do you know?" he asked.

Son of a bitch. She never could hide anything. She stared back at him. They both knew his question was valid. The remaining question was whether or not she'd lie to him --as her training demanded. As Rob had thought she would.

Was it Freud or Plato who said that mankind had to voluntarily give up cherished freedoms to have the protection provided by society? And society itself placed certain demands, among them the right to live without threat.

Threat.

"Marisa?" he asked.

She felt herself bristle at his use of her first name. She hadn't given him permission to do so. For a moment, that seemed like excuse enough to push past him and go down the stairs. But something wouldn't let her do it. Something more fundamental than elusive ideals and politicized views of the police.

"Come with me," she said. She led him into the mailroom, flicked on the light, and closed the door. She had never been in this room at night. The light was thin, the flyers that stuck out of the mailholes looking like sticks in the semi-darkness. The saggy couch looked even more old and uncomfortable than it did during the day.

Bergen stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back. His features were impassive.

"You have to promise me," she said, "that you'll keep this conversation private."

"If I can."

"That's not a promise."

"It's the best I can do," he said.

She knew that. She knew it, but she didn't want to give him any quarter at all. She hadn't realized how hard this would be.

"I'm going to tell you something that I'm not supposed to tell you, that I would never tell you under any other circumstances."

"All right." He hadn't moved, but he sounded intrigued.

"I want you to promise me you'll do everything you can to protect the person I'm going to tell you about

--and if you don't, I swear, the police department has never heard of negative press, not like what I can deliver."

He smiled. "A threat?"

She shook her head, even though she was lying. God, she was afraid of what he'd do. Had all her years in the counterculture brought her to this? An unwillingness to use the very services that most people trusted?

"Rob," she said, "has a commentary at 11. I want you to let him finish it. I don't want you to do anything until we go off the air."

"All right." He was watching her carefully. She knew he was confused.

"And then I don't want you to do anything in front of my staff. In private only, or I swear I --"

"I understand the threat," he said, that hint of a smile peeking out again. She licked her lips. Her stomach was jumping. She hadn't been this unsure of herself since she was what?

Nineteen? "Rob occasionally sells cocaine. In small amounts, to friends only. He used to only handle marijuana, but the eighties --"

"I know," Bergen said.

"Small amounts. Nothing large. And those are the only drugs he ever touches."

"All right."

"The calls are coming from a supplier of his." She closed her eyes. "Rob owes him money." She opened her eyes again. Bergen was watching her.

"Did he give you a name?"

"Just the first name," she said.

Bergen stared at her as if she were lying. She swallowed. This wasn't going the way she wanted it to.

"Rob never has any money. It's not how he lives. The supplier knows this, but he's trying to intimidate it out of him. Tonight's an escalation. I think this has probably been going on a long time --" and as she said that, she thought of how haggard Rob had looked lately, how unwilling he had been to stay around and chat " --and the supplier's getting desperate."

"Or maybe he owes someone else money and is leaning on Rob." She nodded. "Anyway, he's targeting the station because we're Rob's friends. We're his family."

"Holly was a warning."

"I think so."

"You know I'll have to take Rob in, probably arrest him."

"I know," she said. "But can't you give him some kind of immunity if he talks? He's not a big fish."

"Do you think your friend Rob will tell on his friends?"

"His friends wouldn't try to kill someone," she said. "Remind him of that." Her heart was pounding and she was sweating as if she had just gotten off the air.

"I'll wait," Bergen said, "until 11:15, and then I'll deal with Rob. I'll do what I can for him. It'll go easier if he works with me. Can you tell him that?"

She shook her head. "I shouldn't have talked to you. He said he was going to, but he wouldn't. I know. He would have disappeared after his commentary, and I was afraid..." Her voice broke. She ran a hand over her face.

"You were afraid they'd kill him," Bergen said softly.

She nodded, her hand still over her face. Tears threatened. She was emotional because of stress. That was all. She made herself take a deep breath and the shaky feeling eased.

"You were right," Bergen said. "You --"

"Don't tell me I did the right thing." She let her hand drop. "You don't know what this will mean."

"I do." He spoke softly. "It means your friend Rob will live."

* * * *

The eleven o'clock update went on without a hitch --a miracle, Marisa felt, considering the way her hands shook and her stomach jumped. She yelled at Kamal when he came into say that there were two uninvited Independent candidates in the foyer, and then immediately apologized, and told him to keep them there: she would interview them after the update.

All through the update, she couldn't look at Rob. He had asked her to keep things quiet, and she hadn't. She had never done anything like this, never stepped outside the community before, but she knew that it was right. She knew it, and she knew that Rob would be the one who would never forgive her. His commentary was wry and funny, his Stallone impression dead-on, his prediction of the fate of the Presidency chilling at its core. With the _Rocky_ theme music playing beneath it and the deep certainty in his voice, the commentary was the highlight of the entire evening --something so profound and dangerous it didn't belong on a local listener-sponsored station. It belonged on a national network, provoking attention from all over the country.

How could someone so smart be so stupid? How could he see cultural patterns so clearly and lampoon them so well and not be able to see how his own problems would destroy the tiny culture he was a part of? How could he risk his life for some money and a few ounces of powder?

Perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps he had told her precisely because he knew she was the responsible one, because he knew that she would go to Bergen and do it in the right way. He didn't tell Joseph, who would have commiserated, nor did he tell Naomi, who could have given him legal advice. He told Marisa, who had no time to listen and who would protect the station at all costs. At the end of the update, as she was potting up the outro music, her gaze met Rob's. He gave her a small smile. She gave him a thumbs up.

And that was the last she saw of him that night.

She stayed in the booth until 11:30, interviewing the two Independents, then setting up the studio for the last update at midnight. By the time she came out, with a tape for one of the volunteers to cut, both Bergen and Rob were long gone.

Only Kamal had seen them leave together, and he was too new to know how strange that was. Marisa didn't have time to ask questions, nor did she want to: she didn't want to draw attention to the strangeness of it all.

Her stomach was acid, her mind numb. She cobbled the final update together --most of the election statistics were the same. There would be no more real news until morning --and she organized the final tapes from City Hall. The stringers were straggling in from their various assignments: they'd be up until two or three a.m. preparing stories for the following morning's broadcasts. Her regular writers were finishing their stories. Joseph was picking through the best of the commentary for one more newscast.

"Rob disappeared fast," he said as Marisa came into the newsroom.

"Yeah," she said, and turned her attention to sorting the last of the UPI copy. CNN was interviewing some shrill election official from a Western state, upset that several of the major markets announced Reagan as a landslide winner two hours before the Western polls closed. That was a good story, and one she would have assigned someone for the next day, but she didn't have the energy or the heart. The midnight update wasn't as good as the eleven, but it had more meat. The governor showed up for one of his election night surprise visits --a tradition, he told her as he shook her hand on the way out -and the last interview, with one of the state's U.S. senators had a few surprises in it that would make the national news --if Marisa could find someone to cut and wrap it before six a.m. Maybe the promise of real money would do it.

She staggered out of the booth, after clearing the carts and tapes and debris from the hectic night. Kamal had left reception, and the midnight-to-six rock-and-roll DJ was already in his booth, playing "Johnny B. Goode." Blackburn was in the music library putting away his dirges. He would join the crew, as he always did, for the election night post-game analysis at Tuft's Tavern down the street. As she passed the reception desk, the phone rang. A chill ran down her back. What if she had been wrong? What if Rob had been wrong? What if he hadn't known who that voice belonged to?

She set down the pile of materials she was carrying, and punched the line, giving the station's call letters in a no-nonsense voice.

"I'm calling for Marisa ..."

"This is," she said. The voice was different, but familiar. She had heard it just recently. It was --"Detective Bergen. I thought I'd give you an update."

"Okay." She sat on the edge of the desk. Joseph came up the stairs and looked at her curiously. She pointed to the items on the desk and mimed carrying them. He did, disappearing downstairs again. All the while, Detective Bergen was talking.

"We have a man named Tim Ibarra in custody, and our men found enough drugs in his apartment to build a large case against him. We also found some evidence that will lead to a few other arrests."

"Rob?" she asked.

"Is fine. He called an attorney, and he'll be out within a few hours. We're going to charge him, but recommend leniency --probation and community service --if he testifies against Ibarra. He did give us the name, so I trust he'll cooperate."

He probably gave the name because she had already given part of it. Marisa said nothing. For the first time that night, she had no idea what to say.

"That's the best I could do," Bergen said. "I just wanted you to know."

"I appreciate it," she said.

There was silence on the other end for a long moment. She wasn't sure if she should have hung up. Then Bergen said, "His commentary was brilliant."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, it was."

"I voted for Reagan."

"I figured."

"Your friend made me wonder if I should have, if I was voting for a man or an image."

"Rob's good at that."

"Maybe this will scare him a little," Bergen said. "Turn him around. Make him use his talents for a wider audience."

"Maybe," she said.

"But you don't think so."

"Rob's living a lifestyle only a few people believe in any more. It's political for him. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," Bergen said. "It's political for all of you, for all your pretense at objectivity." She smiled, glad he couldn't see her. The station always thought that was its own little secret. "I didn't expect your call, Detective. Thanks."

"No," he said quietly. "I know how difficult it is to be out of touch with the people around you. I appreciate you stepping away, for just that moment, to do this thing." He had understood what it cost her then. Her assessment of him hadn't been wrong. He knew, and he valued it. Somehow that made things a little better.

She hung up and went downstairs. Naomi was putting on her coat. Joseph was frowning.

"You know they arrested Rob tonight?"

"Yes," Marisa said. "I was just talking to the detective. Seems Rob knew the caller. The man was threatening him. The detective isn't interested in Rob. He wants the connections."

"That's what Rob said." Naomi pulled on her mittens. "He called while you were upstairs."

"How is he?" Marisa asked.

"Scared," Naomi said, "I'm not a criminal attorney, but I can protect Rob's butt tonight. Tomorrow, I'm going to get one of the best guys in the state to work on his case, pro bono."

"You can do that?" Joseph asked.

"No, but I know a judge who owes me one." Naomi tugged on her stocking cap and looked at Marisa.

"Rob had a message for you."

Marisa froze.

"He wanted me to tell you that you did the best work of your life tonight." Marisa's knees gave out. She sat in a metal folding chair, listening to it creak beneath her. "It was just an election night," she said.

"The world changes on election night," Joseph said with a rueful smile. "I learned that twenty years ago."

"Me, too." Naomi grabbed her briefcase. She looked like a cross between a student and a lawyer. "I'll meet you guys at Tuft's with news." And then she left.

Marisa got the one of the remaining volunteers to cut the governor's tape, and sent her to Booth Two to work.

Joseph waited for Marisa, slapping his gloves against his hands. "You turned Rob in, didn't you?" he asked.

Marisa swallowed. She nodded.

He stared at her for a long moment, his dark eyes appraising. "We don't go to cops."

"The guy was threatening Rob."

"Rob would have handled it."

"Rob?"

Joseph nodded. "Rob's handled things before."

"Like this? The guy nearly killed Holly."

"Not intentionally."

Marisa was shaking. "Yes, intentionally. Don't you understand? He would have hurt Rob. He probably would have hurt you."

"Don't you understand?" Joseph asked, grabbing his coat and throwing it over his arm. "That's how these guys work. They threaten until someone caves. You caved."

"I got him locked up."

"At what cost? Rob? You think he'll get off, now that Ronnie's got a new term?"

"Bergen promised me --"Bergen?" Joseph asked. "You believed a cop?" She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Yes."

Joseph slung his coat over his shoulders. "You talk the talk, but when it comes time to walk the walk, you're just like the rest of them. You have no clue what it means to be radical."

"What does it mean?" she asked. "Living in a nice house near the university? Working a salaried job?"

"I do medical research."

"Yeah, and you make a fortune, and you volunteer here to salve your conscience. Or is it so that you can score some dope on the side? Is that what's bugging you?"

His eyes narrowed. "I did my time in the trenches, girl. And I'd never narc on a friend."

"Even if the friend died because of your silence?"

"Even if the friend died."

She was breathing hard. Their faces were only an inch apart. "Now I know why you're in medical research, Dr. Hecht. No one would trust you to handle patients."

"I do what's right," he said.

"Do you?" she asked.

"More than you'll ever know," he said and left.

"That was charming." Blackburn was standing in the darkness just outside the newsroom door. He let himself in. He had his coat on too. "Guess he's not waiting for the rest of us."

"You still want to go?" she asked. "With a narc like me?"

"Narc, hell," he said. "You could use a drink." He grabbed her coat off the rack, and held it out to her.

"Twenty years ago," he said, "it seemed so easy. And sometimes it still does. But sometimes..." He shook his head. "...the rules --or the anti-rules --don't give you any solutions at all. Just questions." She looked at him.

He shrugged. "It's not Berkeley in '64. Or anywhere in '68. Or '72. It's 1984. Big Brother year."

"And I guess Big Brother has got to me."

Blackburn shook his head. "You just recognized what Dylan always knew. The times are still a changing."

"You're not mad at me?"

"For saving Rob? Maybe. I always thought he was a prick." She felt herself smile. "For talking to Bergen."

"I don't see the world in black and white," Blackburn said.

"Then what were the dirges?" she asked.

His gaze met hers. His eyes were a vivid, and sad, blue. "Recognition," he said.

"Of?"

"The fact that the world is a place that I don't have a lot of control over." He sighed. "But you took control tonight. Maybe that's what pissed off Joseph."

"I went to the Establishment."

"Like it or not, Joseph is Establishment too. He just doesn't realize it." She shook her head. "It's not that easy."

"It's not supposed to be." Blackburn picked up her purse and held it out to her. "Tufts?" She took the coat. It was thin, cloth, bought used, and gave her little protection against the cold. She sacrificed a lot to be here. She just hadn't been willing to sacrifice Rob. Maybe one day she'd tell Joseph that.

Maybe one day, he'd understand.

"Tuft's," she said. "On one condition."

"Name it," Blackburn said.

"Promise not to play another dirge ever again."

Blackburn grinned. "Can't. Reagan can only serve two terms. It's the law."

"Didn't think you believed in the law," she said.

"Only when it suits me," he said and winked. "And sometimes it suits me just fine."