The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  | 80 |

  A sad woman telephoned him. She suspected that her husband might be “seeing” another woman. The grief in her voice sent him plunging into those endless chambers of loss he now knew so well, and he lied: I only do insurance fraud, personal injury. I wouldn’t touch a divorce case.

  Please, Mr. Tyler, the woman sobbed. I can’t bear not knowing. My friend Selena Contreras recommended you; you helped her . . .

  Do you listen to your husband? he asked her.

  What do you mean?

  Do you make him feel good when he’s around you? Wouldn’t you rather—

  I can’t stand it. It’s too late for that. I just need to know.

  Have you ever discovered something about a person you’ve wished you didn’t know?

  Stop it!

  Well, are you better off knowing or not knowing? I’m trying to help you, ma’am.

  I want to know. I need to know.

  Well, then, you already do know. I’ll tell you why. First of all, if you suspect it, it’s probably true. Whether or not they’re having intercourse together, they’re doing something.

  Oh, my God, wept the woman.

  Think about it. If you still want me to check your husband out, call me in the morning.

  The woman never called again. Tyler went to bed and for some reason dreamed of John’s angry face.

  | 81 |

  But after that, he began to have good fortune. He got two adultery cases in one afternoon, with satisfying retainers for each. Neither one made his heart ache. The landlord came over and fixed the toilet for the second time and it didn’t leak after that. On Monday evening he called Dan Smooth.

  | 82 |

  Well, are we ready to dot the i’s? said Brady. This is an obnoxious place. Who designed this place? I wouldn’t eat dinner here if you paid me. Well, maybe if you paid me. I’m not that particular.

  John laid down the legal draft. —What’s the consolidated leverage ratio? he asked.

  We’ll get to that.

  John thought this red-faced entrepreneur to be a true original, a driven winner who did not need any other human being to make him full partner. Brady’s manner and his grand project exuded a sense of freedom which made John dream about someday trying his own luck in the financial jungle, of throwing up law and making millions by discovering or creating new desires in his fellow citizens. Was Brady playing a clean game? Well, in business how could games be clean? For that matter, weren’t all life’s gamepieces equally ordure-stained? How had Irene treated him? And that crooked Hank . . . Perhaps what really attracted him to Brady was the other man’s rage. (At the same time, of course, the man bored him, because everybody bored John.)

  And another thing, Mr. Brady, he said. I’ll need a more thorough financial statement. Now, this revolving credit facility you’re talking about here, that’s fine, but I need you to break down these quarterly fees. That’s a lot of money right there.

  I promise you this, said Brady. We’re going to keep a pretty goddamned low overhead expense to sales ratio. And we’re gonna keep our eyes on the gross margin returns.

  Fine, but that has nothing to do with quarterly fees.

  I honestly don’t know about that one, son. Let me find out.

  No problem, said John making two tickmarks on the yellow pad. He was particularly fond of his mechanical pencil, which, slender, octagonal in cross-section, and gunmetal-hued, with inlaid lozenges of rosewood, had been a present from Irene. —And we still need clarification on some employee issues.

  What issues? said Brady in surprise. What employees? It’s all going to be virtual reality, remember?

  That’s fine, said John. But what about the bartenders, waitresses, hostesses, janitors?

  Some day they’ll all be robots, Brady said dreamily. You know, I had lunch with that Alexis Dydynski, a very intimate lunch. Know who he is?

  No, I don’t, Mr. Brady, said John, looking at his watch.

  Executive Vice President at the Royal Grand. You remember when that place opened? Oh, it was a big brouhaha, but that’s another story. It’s not my policy to tell more than one story at a time. Anyway, Dydynski said to me: Slot machines don’t ask for raises, don’t get pregnant, don’t get sick, and always show up for work. —And I thought to myself, John: Here is one smart man.

  All right, said John patiently. See if you can get a formal employee policy together. —And he made another tickmark on the yellow pad. —Now if you would, Mr. Brady, I’d like you to glance over clause three.

  I don’t give a shit about that part, either, said Brady. That part is your job. Just make it all ironclad. This business is going to last hundreds of years. I’m thinking big.

  What’s the working lifetime of your virtual staff?

  Oh, five years. Maybe less. But in five years we’ll want to update the theme park with even more state-of-the-art experiences. Look. The theme park only cost three hundred and eighty-seven million. The real question is this and I hope you’re considering it: Who’s against us?

  I don’t know what you’re talking about, John said.

  Look. Every business venture has friends and enemies, right? So who are our enemies? Casinos? Department of Parks and Recreation? Gambling Commission? Women’s organizations? Rightwing Christians? Leftwing Christians? The Teamsters? I want this document to be enemy-specific. Do you see what I’m driving at?

  You sound apprehensive, Mr. Brady.

  Well, of course there’ll be various claims and actions against the company. But I don’t think they’ll have a leg to stand on. If they do, why, young John, you and I can kick that leg out from under . . .

  Not my department. By the way, I think you ought to insist on the right to extend your leases up to at least fifteen years, John said.

  At escalated rents?

  Well, Mr. Brady, of course they’ll have to be escalated, unless you hold a gun to their heads. But that’s fine. If you lost the lease, you’d be paying escalated rents at a new site anyway.

  All right, we’ll cut a deal. Let’s meet for breakfast at the Mark Hopkins on Wednesday, seven a.m. I’ll do my homework on consolidated leverage, employee guidelines and quarterly fees. You do yours on enemies.

  John walked back to the office and told Mr. Singer that the Brady contracts were going to bring in many, many more billable hours.

  I love the law, said Mr. Singer.

  * * *

  •BOOK V•

  * * *

  The Mark of Cain

  •

  * * *

  Matthew said, “Lord, I want to see that place of life where there is no wickedness, but rather there is pure light.”

  The Lord said, “Brother Matthew, you will not be able to see it as long as you are carrying flesh around.”

  GNOSTIC SCRIPTURES, Dialogue of the Savior, III, 5, 27–28 (2nd cent.)

  * * *

  •

  | 83 |

  Again he drove to Sacramento with its black parking lots given meaning by cars, its malls so thoroughly placed and identical in composition that every three or four miles one thought to be back at the same retail outlets no better or worse than the cigarette-burned pillowcases of San Francisco’s whore hotels; and the night was hot and still. His mother slept. Dan Smooth sat out on his back porch on Q Street, drinking rum.

  Right on time, said Smooth, or at least I presume you’re on time, because I can’t see my watch. It’s been a bad summer for gnats, I’m sorry to say.

  Well, maybe the next one will be better.

  Spoken like an optimist—hee, hee! And I’m just the opposite. I know I’m not your type, but you can’t do without me, can you?

  I’ll hold judgment on that, Dan.

  And did you decide anything?

  Yes, I did.

  Well, tell me about it later. She moves around a bit, you see, Smooth explained. Hops around, like a lap dancer. You can’t always say where she is, but you can find where she is, if you see the distinction.

 
; Yeah, I get it, said Tyler, longing to look at his watch. He thought of the old criticism of Wagner: great moments and horrible half-hours. With Smooth the moments were horrible, too.

  You plan to fuck her?

  Well, your photo didn’t really turn me on, Dan. No offense. I’m sure she’s a nice Queen, though. I guess I’d just as soon keep it all business.

  What does turn you on, Henry? queried Smooth, something moving in his face like the crawling silver shadows on a barmaid’s chin of the change which she is counting behind her half-wall.

  As I said, I’d rather keep this thing professional.

  Oh, get off your high horse! What are you afraid of? Don’t you realize that you have the look in your eyes of a man who has sexual relations with prostitutes, and don’t you know that other men who do the same can always pick you out? You bear the Mark of Cain, brother!

  Tyler grimaced.

  Have a shot, Henry?

  All right.

  There. Now what turns you on?

  What turns you on, Dan? Child molesting?

  I want to tell you something. I can tell a great deal about a man by his face. Not just his eyes, but his entire face. His mouth, for instance. I like to inspect a man’s mouth. I can see from your mouth that you like to go down on women. I can see all their itty-bitty pubic hairs stuck between your teeth! (Oh, I could talk endlessly about textures. Maybe I don’t have a moral sense, but that’s normal. Maybe I do have one, but if so where did I put it?) I see I forgot to offer you a shot. Help yourself. Well, as I was saying, how do I know you don’t suck guys? Well, because you never did come on to me, and I know I’m quite attractive. Elementary, as Sherlock used to say. You don’t like me, do you, Henry? I can tell that from the color of your nose. You see, most other men, if they want something from me, they brown-nose me a little. Why else do you think my asshole’s so clean and shiny? They pretend not to mind—oh, they just have to pretend. Grin and bear it when I talk about what I talk about. But your nose is a good honest pink drinker’s nose, and not a bit of shit on it. Now, as for your ears, Henry, I regret to tell you this, but you have envious ears. I’m not going to tell you how I know that, though, because old Dan Smooth’s got to have a few secrets in this world, just to keep the ears of his fellow man envious. And as for children, to answer your question, no, I can’t tear myself away from them. If I were going to be marooned on a desert island and I could take only one food with me, you know what it would be? The earwax of a ten-year-old child.

  What if it came out of envious ears? said Tyler.

  Interesting case! But you still haven’t answered my question.

  That’s just how Brady used to talk to me.

  Maybe because we each have something you need. Maybe my ageing eyesight’s not so good. Maybe there’s brown on your schnozz after all, brother. Maybe there’s brown stuff packed way up between your nostrils—

  All right, Dan. What turns me on is a sincere woman. That’s all.

  And what does she smell like?

  You know, Dan, a lot of people on this earth fall in love with each other first and then have sex afterward.

  But not you, Henry—ha, ha, not you! Remember, I can see your Mark of Cain glowing right now in this darkness! It’s brighter than my bug-zapper light! So don’t lie to me, buddy, because we’re both children of the same wicked God. Are you trying to deny that you care what they smell like?

  That’s right.

  How about a high-grade armpit? Like roast coffee, almost—well, it depends on the—

  Usually I shake hands instead of sniffing armpits, Dan.

  Oh, then he likes mannish women. Office types, in executive blazers. But they use deodorant. Old Dan doesn’t like that one bit. And you say it doesn’t matter?

  It’s not my number one concern.

  So you’d do it with anyone then. You’d fuck anybody no matter how she smells. Talk about perversion. Talk about obscenity. This man dares to get sarcastic with me because I have certain fantasies regarding children, when he himself is nothing but a—I have no words—a mere functionary! There’s something inconsistent about you—yeah, yeah, something brutally untrue. And you deny it; you deny your own animal nature. I disgust you, but what’s inside your guts? Children of the same God, I said! And the Queen, she can see your Mark of Cain! That’s why she stayed away from you, because she’s good. Whatever she does, she—oh, what’s the use of explaining it to you? You don’t see me as a human being; I’m just your way station. So. Where’s my reward?

  Right here, Dan. These Swedish postcards.

  Well. Well! That was thoughtful. Are they illegal?

  Probably. I didn’t flash them at any cops—

  Where did you get them?

  From a friend.

  How nice of him. Or her. Let me go inside and look at them. You wait here.

  Give her this, said Smooth, returning a quarter-hour later. It’s just glass, but she’ll know what it is. Give it to some whore, and make up a good line, so the whore’ll think it’s something important, you see . . .

  | 84 |

  The sheets smelled of body odor. The closet door yawned and creaked. He turned on the television at once and kept it loudly going at all times, so no one would know whether he was there or not—better that they assume he was there, so they didn’t break in. The door was barely held together by a pair of angle-nailed planks, and the bolt came out of the lock with a single tug.

  He hadn’t stayed at the Karma Hotel in a couple of years. He was ready to essay it again after his less than sleep-filled night at the Rama. The Karma had once been filled with the scents of fresh Indian cooking, but it didn’t smell like curry anymore, and the old lady wasn’t stirring her pot of beans, and her daughter no longer wore a sari, nor did she bear the round red caste-dot on her forehead. America the melting-pot, thought Tyler to himself. The daughter looked older, dirtier, and angrier.

  Can I help you? she said, neither recognizing him nor wanting to help him.

  You have any rooms?

  I.D., she said.

  (That was new. They never used to ask for identification.)

  He passed her his driver’s license and she wrote the number down, after which at her curt demand he surrendered twenty-five dollars. Last time it had been eighteen.

  His room stank. On the television, a woman screamed.

  It was almost sunset. Leaving the television jabbering away, he descended to Capp Street and found a girl.

  My room? the girl said.

  No, come up to mine, he said. I’ve got all the equipment there.

  What, are you into S & M or something like that?

  Something like that, he said.

  Where you staying?

  The Karma.

  They don’t let me in there.

  Well, let’s try.

  What the hell, the girl sighed. Just as a tired barmaid draws her paper towel across the beer cooler in slow arcs, with untouched space in between, so Providence had incompletely abscessed this person, who still possessed many strangely healthy places on her thighs here bared to the open air.

  What’s yours, said Tyler, looking her over acutely, heroin?

  Yup.

  How many times a day?

  Just five.

  Well, that’s not too bad, he said.

  They went back to Mission Street where at the street-grating he rang the buzzer, and someone let the lovebirds in, so they ascended the stairs to the second grating, which buzzed at their approach like the wing of an immense metallic insect, and then they were inside and facing the half-door behind which there had once been the smell of Indian cooking.

  Can I help you? said the same woman.

  Mutely, he showed her his key.

  Don’t get smart with me, the woman sneered. I was nice to you before, but now I see what kind you are. You see this notice on the wall? NO VISITORS. You know what we call men like you? Trash collectors.

  You gotta pay for my visit, idiot, the whore said.

&
nbsp; He gave the woman a five, which she snatched with a snotty look. (He’d heard that the city planned to condemn this place.) Then she turned her back on them both, which he interpreted as permission granted for their private and consensual proceedings.

  In his room the television was screaming again, because a murderer was eviscerating someone.

  Pay me first, the girl said.

  He gave her twenty.

  Well, you gonna unzip or am I supposed to do that? she said.

  You know the Queen, don’t you? he said.

  Oh, great, the girl said. Another fucking cop trying to jack me up.

  From his night bag Tyler withdrew a fat manila envelope called “EVIDENCE.”—This is from Dan Smooth, he said, breaking the seal. Can you remember that name? And I’m Tyler.

  Tyler, huh? How about if I just call you Blowhard?

  I thought that was your job, said Tyler.

  He upended the envelope over the bed, and a fat blue crystal fell soundlessly out. —Now, this is one of the missing jewels to her crown, Tyler explained. You wouldn’t want to steal a jewel from your own Queen’s crown, now, would you?