The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  | 36 |

  Just as he got home, the telephone rang. He thought it would be Brady, but it was a wrong number.

  The telephone rang.

  Yeah, he said.

  Harry Tooler, please?

  Sounds like a telephone sale, said Tyler.

  Oh, no, sir. This is an opportunity call.

  Not interested, he said, hanging up.

  The phone rang immediately.

  Hello? he said patiently.

  Is this Harry Tooler? said a different woman.

  Is this a telephone sale?

  No, sir, I don’t sell anything over the phone. I only want to tell you about my products, the woman said brightly.

  No, thank you, he said, hanging up.

  The phone rang at once.

  I’ll stick my hairy tool in you! he shouted.

  Just what’s that supposed to mean, Hank? came his brother’s voice.

  | 37 |

  It means I probably didn’t get that garage mechanic’s job, said Tyler.

  Oh, forget it, said John. The reason I called is that I gather we’re both working for Jonas Brady.

  Yep, I guess we are, said Tyler. Is it working out, being his lawyer?

  I can’t help but admire the guy, said John. He knows what he wants. But since he also hired you, I wonder if he’s up to anything illegal.

  I did a T.U. on him already.

  A what?

  A Trans Union. A credit check. John, he has very, very good credit.

  He does, huh? said Tyler’s brother, impressed in spite of himself.

  I ran him through TRW also and tied him to a social security number in Missouri. Nothing wrong with that.

  That spying business you’re into doesn’t really make him smell like a rose, if he’s into it, too.

  I get it, said Tyler. Since I’m working for him, he’s no good.

  Exactly, said John.

  Tyler laughed sadly. —So what do you want to know?

  What are you doing for him?

  Standard missing persons case. Well, almost standard. He’s looking for the Queen of the Whores, and there might actually be such a lady. I already have a few leads. Kind of interesting, actually. He’ll probably terminate me pretty soon . . .

  How much is he paying you?

  Oh, decent.

  How are you fixed for money, Hank?

  Oh, fine, said Tyler heartily.

  I thought I saw you at the courthouse yesterday.

  Well, I was, uh, researching the Queen because the computer only gives case number and jurisdiction for a defendant so you have to go to court and order the—

  You’re a mess, Hank. You’re disorganized. You need help.

  Oh, forget it, said Tyler.

  You need a loan, don’t you?

  I said forget it.

  All right, I’ll butt out of your business. But can you swear to me there’s nothing illegal going on with Brady? As I said, I like him fine, but the fact that he’s—

  Look, John. You yourself just said that in my line of work, people cut corners. But nothing egregious is going on. I have to tell you, though, that the guy gives me the creeps. I think he’s evil and up to no good. If I find this Queen I’m going to warn her before I show him where she is. But that’s what I always do. You see, some of these stalkers—

  Evil is one thing. Evil’s only subjective. Illegal is another.

  John, just be careful. I’m telling you, Brady gives me a bad feeling.

  All right, whatever. Have you called Mom lately?

  Yes, I have. And I called the doctor, too. She’s not doing so well, you know.

  You have the nerve to tell me that!

  John?

  What?

  John, how are you doing these days?

  Just what is that supposed to mean?

  John, you know I’m sorry about—

  Oh, for God’s sake. Can’t we leave her out of this? Just once?

  Whatever you say, John.

  And how are you doing?

  You already asked me that.

  Well, I’m asking again, bro.

  I can’t say things are going so well for me, John. But you know I was always a whiner. Actually, things aren’t so bad. Why don’t you come on by for dinner on Thursday or Friday and we’ll . . .

  | 38 |

  Goddamned fucking jerk, said John. Look how he just sits there. Right turn. Right turn. Right turn, you fucking asshole!

  John, said Irene, could I please ask you a favor?

  What?

  Please please don’t brake so hard. I’m carrying a baby, you know.

  Thanks for reminding me, said John. Fucking jerk. Look at him. Just look at him.

  Irene grimaced and rubbed her temples. The red neon chain blinked around the yellow sign for the Russian Renaissance Restaurant where Henry had once taken her, and then the light changed and they were past it, Geary Street leading them deeper into the fog. Red bus-lights glared, ringed around with mist like the moon in some old almanac, and then after a long light John turned sharply on Nineteenth so that Irene was thrown against her seatbelt. They crossed Anza Street. John turned sharply left again. Irene felt like vomiting. Now they were crossing Golden Gate Park. The stream of tail-lights ahead of them in the fog of Park Presidio resembled the articulated scales of some complex Chinese dragon made of bright red paper.

  I don’t want you to let him kiss you hello, John said.

  Aren’t you maybe worrying about nothing?

  It makes me sick. I can hardly stand the bastard as it is. If he weren’t my goddamned brother . . .

  John slammed the car faster and slower through the traffic of Nineteenth, which sloped ever so gently uphill in the fog, everything grey; it would be a night of fog, with coronas around all the streetlights.

  | 39 |

  Tyler lived on Pacheco, just off Nineteenth, so he was actually very close to where the old Parkside Theater used to be—one reason that he had felt pleased with his address when he’d moved in fourteen years ago—to say nothing of the cheapness of it, thanks to quiet and to fog. John, of course, had long since accepted the dismal blocky ugliness of his brother’s choice as further evidence of ineptitude, if not of actual inferiority. To him the place had and was exactly nothing.

  They parked in the driveway, and Irene, sitting queasily in the car, let John go ahead to ring the buzzer for Number Four. It was all too clear to her that she had better not act in any way eager, that her only permitted role tonight would be that of mournful irritability, so that John would be able to say at last: Well, Irene seems to be out of sorts. She’s hardly said a word all evening. What’s the matter with you, Irene? I’m going to take you home. Anyway I have some work to do . . .

  What’s the matter? he was calling to her now. Can’t you see I’m holding the door open?

  Irene got out of the car and shut her door. With an impatient finger-stab on the small black remote unit which he clenched, John locked and alarm-activated the vechicle against foggy intruders. Irene gazed up at the sky, inhaling cold, refreshing fog.

  | 40 |

  That coffee-maker of yours really sucks, John said as kindly as he could. If you’ll just read about it in Consumer Reports you’ll understand that there’s no way it could ever make good coffee. Irene, do you think we should get Hank a decent capuccino machine for Christmas?

  If that’s what he wants, his wife replied almost inaudibly.

  Tyler longed to ask her whether she might be unwell; but he knew that any such question would send John into a rage.

  Well, enough of this swill, said John, taking his mug and Irene’s and dashing their contents out into the sink. Tyler sat sipping steadily from his cup.

  The chicken was very good, said Irene without enthusiasm.

  What are you talking about? laughed John. He burned it! He fucking burned it! Henry, you’ve got to get married. Mom wants you to! Not that it’s any skin off my nose, but you’re going to starve to death or poison yourself or someth
ing if you don’t find a woman to cook for you.

  Do you have anyone in mind? Tyler drawled, staring into Irene’s face.

  If I did, it would be pure self-defense, John replied. I think you know what I mean. Why don’t you take out an ad in the paper or something? How long has it been since what’s-her-name?

  Jackie? said Tyler with weary patience.

  I wasn’t even thinking about her. She never counted. No, I was thinking about . . . —John snapped his fingers.

  You mean Alyssa.

  That’s right, that’s right! John cried with a sudden strange gaiety. Alyssa—that was her name. And she would have done anything for you, but you let her go, you stupid, stupid sonofabitch!

  How long ago was that, Henry? whispered Irene with effort.

  Seven years ago, Tyler said. No, eight years ago. We broke up just before Christmas 1985. She, uh . . . I guess she still hates me . . .

  She would have married you! laughed John. And you showed her the door! And you said, get out of here, bitch! You said—

  It didn’t happen quite that way, John.

  And Mom liked her, too, his brother said accusingly. Mom would have given anything to see you married.

  Well, that’s not a secret, said Tyler, his hand trembling.

  So you didn’t marry her. You let her go. What was the reason? John persisted, and Tyler felt hatred red and black and wobbling rise up in his stomach.

  Irene sat staring down at her plate.

  I guess we just didn’t get along, Tyler said finally, relieved to hear the steadiness in his voice. Now the hatred was in his chest.

  Look, John said. You’ve got to face facts, Hank. You have a crummy personality. You’ve always had a crummy personality. No woman’s going to enjoy being with you. So if you catch one, you’ve got to get your hooks in her while you can. You’re going to be miserable no matter what you do, so why not just get married and forget it?

  Just pretend this is Mission Street, Tyler thought to himself. Just pretend that he is a crazy and potentially violent panhandler who must be humored. He smiled at John and was about to offer him more coffee, but then he remembered that the mugs had been taken away.

  | 41 |

  The following morning was blue and cool in San Francisco. Tyler sat at the counter of a coffee bar across the street from his apartment, gazing down at the wood that the steadily darkening espresso in his cup rested upon, and he ran his forefinger along the lines of grain as if they were trails of meaning in a street map. He put a new surveillance report form onto his clipboard and wrote: 2:48 a.m. Domino and other unidentified Caucasian female entered garage with middle-aged Afro-American male, exited 3:04 a.m. He wrote down the license plate number of the car across the street, added some more garbage, and that form was a quarter finished . . . A woman with wet dark bangs and sunglasses kept breaking off pieces of her scone and easing them into her newspaper-reading boyfriend’s mouth, after which she licked her fingers. —Well, thought Tyler, it’s obvious who loves whom.

  Any new developments? said Brady, sliding into the stool beside him.

  Morning, boss.

  Boss again, is it? I can take a hint. Sure, I’ll pay you. Why do you need it now? You sexually compromised?

  Tyler thought but did not say: Mister, you are a toad. —But then he thought happily: And a rich one, too.

  Well, did you find the Queen? said Brady.

  Not yet.

  But you did find something?

  She’s smarter than I figured. I sent her some love letters and they stayed in that parking garage. They’re still there and it’s been two weeks. She must have read them there, or somebody read them for her. I’m sure she knows about us now, but we still don’t know where she is.

  Well, it’s great she knows me, but I’m not trying to get elected. I’m sick of flushing money down the toilet. I want it to stop today. I want you to take care of it today.

  Why do you want to find the Queen anyway, boss? What is it you want to say to her?

  Classified, said Brady. Then he winked and said: I want her to be the star attraction of a little franchise operation I’m putting together in Vegas. I’m going to teach her to sing a little jingle that goes like this: Klexter, klokan, kladd, kludd, kligrapp . . . You know what that means?

  So Vegas is still a boomtown? said Tyler. I figured it must have hit recession by now. Shows how much I know.

  The builders are building as fast as they can. Retirees are moving into that town at a record rate. We’re going to have the biggest planned community in the world.

  I thought you were from Missouri.

  That’s beside the point. Las Vegas has been booming for forty years. Las Vegas is not overbuilt. Eighty-five percent of the people in the United States have not visited Las Vegas.

  Including the Queen, I guess.

  You spend a lot of time in the Tenderloin, don’t you?

  Some.

  Can’t you just imagine the way it used to be when it was the Barbary Coast? said Brady with a dreamy grin. All the casino dealers in black and white, and the cocktail ladies in pure white with gold-lined sleeves, showing titty, you know, with those old one-strap skirts so short they hardly cover their asses, yeah. I want to bring all that back. Have a single gold band just above the hem of the skirt, a silver belt, and make ’em all wear a long pigtail; if you tip ’em good maybe they can slap your face with it . . . Know what I’m saying?

  I get it, said Tyler, not very interested.

  And Feminine Circus will be like that, only new and different.

  How can skin shows be different?

  Oh, I’ll tell you something, Brady said. I’ve had a cunt that tastes like steak tartare. That’s easy. What I’m looking for is a cunt that tastes like roasted chicken. Now, that’d be different, wouldn’t it?

  I don’t think in those terms.

  Now, like I said, I want all this runaround to stop today. You hear what I had to do to that phony you sent me?

  Yeah, I heard she wound up with some health problems.

  Somehow, said Brady with a grin, I just had the impression that she was lying to me.

  You remind me of my brother, Tyler said, narrowing his eyes as he gazed into Brady’s florid face. I’d like to introduce you sometime.

  John Tyler? laughed his boss, lighting up a fat cigar. The one with the Chink wife? He’s already working for me. I’m paying him more than I’m paying you.

  | 42 |

  What had happened on that day when Tyler had led from that parking garage a slender and submissive little black woman who silently sat down in the passenger seat of Brady’s rental car as Tyler, following previous instructions, closed the door from the outside and walked off to his bus stop? Investigate the mouth of truth, and await his splendid roar which will answer every question. Tyler had ostensibly found truth’s mouth; Brady had hired him for that. Now Brady would hear that jangled, metallic roaring for himself, or else. He stuck an unlit cigar in his mouth. The prostitute cleared her throat. (Behind her, a woman with a white shopping bag leaned against the scuffed yellow-lit wall.) Brady turned the key in the ignition, listened to the radio for a moment, backed out of the parking space, and began heading west.

  So you’re the Queen, huh? he said, gazing straight over the steering wheel.

  Uh huh. What do you want with me?

  Oh, I guess I wanted to pay you for your time.

  I don’t come cheap, said the Queen.

  I don’t care if you come at all, said Brady. Coming is the man’s job.

  Are you a misogynist?

  Some whore asked Mr. Tyler that just the other day. Domino, her name was. I’m trying to talk like him. Hey, Your Highness, I’ve been studying up on royalty. Did you know that the kings of France in the Middle Ages were born with a scarlet fleur-de-lys on the right shoulder? My slapper told me that.

  A floor de what?

  You know, a triple lily flower. I’m educated. The insiginia of France. I just wondered if you had any
kind of mark on your body that proved you were the Queen.

  Mister, are you calling me a liar?

  Would I call a lady that? Klexter, klokan, kladd, kludd, kligrapp . . . Come on, Your Highness. That’s the kind of question I ask.

  I feel like you’re mocking me.

  I’m sorry, said Brady. I’ll try to be nicer to you.

  And he was. Brady’s huge shoulders rose in a friendly fashion in the slate-colored business suit, and the faint smell of cologne thrilled her mercenary desires. He spent fifty dollars on her in an Italian restaurant (she ordered some little baguette-like thing shaped like a turd) and got her all mellow and fuddled with wine while he agreed with everything she said, saying: yes, ma’am, or I think you’re right, ma’am. He said to her: You are the Queen of the nicest little city around.

  I don’t get much time to appreciate it right now, said the Queen. I’m awfully busy. Where are you from?

  Wherever you’re from.

  Uh huh, said the Queen.

  And what about Henry Tyler?

  Who?

  I told you. That guy that brought you to me. Has he gotten emotionally compromised with any of your girls?

  I never asked him, said the Queen.

  Now who’s Sapphire?

  A girl.

  Yeah. Thanks a lot. I already figured she was split between her legs. What does she do for you?

  That’s between us, Mr. Brady.

  Does she exist?

  She exists.

  How many girls you got?

  Enough.

  I’m a businessman, you know. I just might be making you the big offer. But you’re going to have to put out.

  Oh, cripes, said the Queen.

  Do you believe I’ve got money?

  Yes.

  Do you believe I know that you believe it?

  Cut the crap.

  Do you believe I believe that you’re the Queen?

  Not yet.