The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  No, the tall man said.

  I don’t approve of you, but you got a lot of guts. I respect you. A little drive-by, roll-by, tooty-shooty, hear what I’m sayin’? A black man, a brother, shouldn’t never be the slave of no bitch.

  Justin said: Awright, my brother, good to talk to you, okay?

  Hey, baby, be cool, okay? croaked the older man.

  Justin Soames, your ride is here, said the nurse.

  The tall man hobbled downstairs, ignoring Strawberry, who hurried after him.

  You holding on, Justin? Tyler said. Beside him, Domino picked at her fingernails.

  Uh huh, said the tall man. I don’t feel nothin’.

  Hey, Dom, hey, Henry, said Strawberry a little too eagerly. We sure appreciate this . . .

  Well, aren’t you just the prettiest berry in the whole damned patch, said Tyler with a cornball smile.

  Cut it out! giggled Strawberry. Stop touchin’ me, homes!

  Justin turned around, scratching his bearded lips, and said: If my old lady was to talk to me like that, I’d slap the shit out of her. I’m talkin’ to you.

  Oh, quit bossing her around, said Domino.

  Who the fuck you think you are? and the tall man raised one crutch as if to strike her, too. She slunk back.

  What a lovely, lovely reunion, chuckled Tyler, narrowing his eyes. Strawberry, don’t you think they ought to get married?

  Strawberry was silent.

  Well. Guess I’m the one who has to carry on all the conversation around here. Justin, you got any stuff?

  Had me some pretty good morphine.

  Morphine’s the best, laughed Domino nervously, still watching the tall man’s crutch. Tyler was immensely saddened to see her fear. It was as if she, too, now acknowledged that the Queen’s world must soon end, at which time her erstwhile clan of brothers and sisters would again scatter to the darkness, becoming predators who preyed upon each other. —And you know what else? she babbled on. That fuckin’ lithium. What the fuck do they use it for? For fuckin’ depression or schizophrenia or what the fuck. It’s better than fuck. And—and—and . . .

  What’s she on? sneered the tall man. Meth? Shit, I didn’t know she could even score a dime bag of goddamn boogie weed without me. Where’s that faggoty car at?

  Shaking his head, Tyler drove them back among the Tenderloin’s striped and tanned and glowing building-rectangles all stacked together like playing cards where on all sides was proclaimed the gospel of HOTELS—MOVIES—XXX except where it said LIQUORS or THUNDER—LIQUOR—BEER—WINE—ATM CARD, and the tall man smiled sallowly, warmed by vagrant beams of barroom light exuded from rows of Old Crow bourbon bottles behind ever so many counters, liquid glowing as yellowly as the slanted stacks of oranges and lemons in the produce markets of Mission Street, and through his rearview mirror Tyler saw the tall man begin to lick his lips.

  Back in Canaan again, yessir, Tyler said. Back in the land of Cain.

  Domino, wearied almost to death of Tyler, whom she watched steadily driving with his grey hands almost rosy thanks to reflected light while his windshield wipers fended off the world, and in equal parts wearied of Strawberry and the tall man because she thought she knew them so well as to preclude any future novelty or even change, tried to imagine herself somewhere else, as she usually did when, for instance, she was naked and on top of or beneath some strange man. At those times she never pretended that she was with anybody special or kind; all that she wanted was to curl safe in some recess which she could no longer even visualize, maybe one of those mellow bars with black leather seats where the patrons smoke cigars and drink single malt Scotch out of glasses not much larger than the ampoules of precious drugs, someplace where the tall man wouldn’t threaten her and Tyler couldn’t play his stupid games and Strawberry . . . Her brothers and sisters, once close enough for her to touch, were rising up into distant and malignant pillars of night.

  Apprised of almost all the intimate characteristics of Strawberry which it is possible for one person to learn about another, Domino was sure that she knew her in her unapproachable soul. She knew what Strawberry’s breath smelled like during her period, and she knew every dimple of her flabby buttocks. She knew the slow, high, Japanese sounding moans which Strawberry uttered whenever she was making love with the tall man, whose own cries were deep metallic monotones like windgusts jetting low between the still skyscrapers of the financial district at dawn. She also knew the moans which Strawberry made when she was with other men, her trick moans, Domino called them, which sounded equally plausible and very well might have been equally pleasurable for Strawberry but which were emitted in a lower key, almost approaching the tall man’s cries. Another of Strawberry’s peculiarities was that her moans never ever coincided with those of whatever man was inside her, but alternated with them like echoes, as if Strawberry were faking them or needed to go her own way or simply experienced joy between instead of during thrusts. Domino had watchdogged Strawberry when customers were iffy; she’d lived with her, double- and triple-dating with her, and so when it came to Strawberry the blonde considered herself a woman of experience. And, like most experiences, this one nauseated her. She longed to forget everything she knew about Strawberry. She hated the tall man and Tyler even when she needed and even loved them. Like the crazy whore, who took shelter in her craziness, and the false Irene, who hid in self-stupefaction, Domino felt embarrassed and revolted by the world around her. Longing to be anywhere but here, she licked her lips and thought about heroin, crack, Sapphire’s clitoris . . .

  Hey, I’m speakin’ to you, Dom, you skanky white bitch. I said, what the fuck you on?

  One time on lithium I got so shitfaced, Domino continued rapidly, glaring at the tall man out of the corner of her eye, and you know I was around all you fucked up people doing what you fucked up people normally do, so I should have been sad. But I couldn’t get this shiteating grin off my face. I kept saying, hey, I’m sorry, I know I should be sad but I’m happier than shit.

  So what’s the plan, now, Justin? Tyler interrupted.

  Whatever it takes.

  Where do you want me to drop you?

  Where the fuck you think?

  Strawberry, Domino, you want to work or you want to hang with the Queen?

  Strawberry cleared her throat and said: I, uh—

  Stay the fuck out of my business! the tall man screamed, rubbing his leg.

  I get it, Tyler said sarcastically.

  The tall man continued not to look at him, and Tyler, suddenly furious, concluded that it must be true what Domino was always sneering into his ear—namely, that the tall man had no love for him whatsoever and therefore used him and mocked him as the cruelest of johns mock their whores. Months ago, Tyler had thought he knew how to deal with him. The Queen was a very big bitch, the tall man used to self-importantly whisper. This was the only sort of lying in which Tyler had ever caught him, this weak struggling to be glamorous. He could have told Tyler that he was a bigshot himself, or even that he was friends with bigshots, but he didn’t set his sights so high. His boss, the Queen, whom he loved and perhaps feared, was glorious enough. But he had never really gotten along with any members of the royal family except for Strawberry, off and on, and of course Maj herself who was now so frequently to be seen walking down the street with her arm tightly about Tyler’s waist and his arm around her shoulder with his fingers gripping her upper arm and her dark face turned toward him as he clung to her, watching the street with his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. To the tall man, Tyler looked shy, maybe even ashamed. He seemed to be gazing away from her.

  Tyler said: Justin, I have a question.

  What?

  Why is it that when I try to be polite and respect you and do you favors like picking you up at the goddamned hospital and ask about how you’re feeling and what your plans are, you don’t even say what’s up? Are you that selfish? Are you that far gone?

  He’s sick, Henry! whispered Strawberry nervously. By the way,
I found this tape player in the women’s bathroom. I’m gonna give it to the Queen . . .

  Ignoring her, the tall man leaned forward and said in tones both earnest and bland, and maybe contemptuous also: You think you can see the agony of the black man?

  What are you talking about?

  How come you never invite me over? You been in all the Queen’s tunnels and you never took me anywhere.

  Well, I didn’t know that you—

  You got a place?

  Sure, Justin. Sure I do.

  Probably some million dollar white man place.

  Oh, give me a break, said Tyler narrowing his eyes.

  A concrete-hued fog protected the Tenderloin from unnecessary light, like some grey rock beneath which bugs and worms could safely crawl, to say nothing of the Tenderloin’s wheelchair kings who rolled beneath those elegant old white skyscrapers, yes, white against a silver-white sky, and the chin-up street kings who stalked the filthy sidewalks, watching the men in crutches approach to do them reverence, and meanwhile the cars snored in between it all, ignored by everyone unless their windows were down for business. The silhouette of a garage mechanic in coveralls bent over a truck hood on Olive Street, and a black girl in a white wool cap and a white quilted jacket approached him. Then they were gone, and so was the rain forest mural on the Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theater. If Tyler didn’t put on the brake soon, they’d be all the way to Frenchy’s adult bookstore.

  I said, you think you can see the agony of the black man? Hell, no. Not even you. I like you, Henry. You my friend. You don’t talk down to me. But you can’t never understand—

  Don’t I bear the Mark of Cain, too? asked Tyler, staring into the tall man’s face and narrowing his eyes. Don’t you think that I—

  Strawberry cleared her throat and said: I, um, I heard they’re gonna put up a big red fence at the end of Haight Street so that the homeless people can’t sleep there in the park no more. Don’t you think that’s fucked? I mean, I really really—

  Cut that Mark of Cain shit, the tall man told Tyler. We all disgraced on this world. I don’t even care about that no more. But you ain’t never been treated like I been treated. You ain’t never felt the agony that every black man feels.

  What’s that supposed to mean? said Tyler. How can you know what the agony of the black man is? Are you that cocksure a sonofabitch, that you can speak for all black men? What can you see?

  I can see this, motherfucker. I can see the burning buildings and the crack-addicted babies and—

  Who burned the buildings down? Who addicted those babies? Was it me? Was it my mother? If some tart like Chocolate gives birth to seven babies and they’re all addicted, why is that my fault? Why’s that the agony of the black man? Why isn’t it your fault or Chocolate’s fault?

  You disrespectin’ me, Henry? I know you disrespectin’ Choc, an’ she’s a sister. If you wasn’t dickin’ the Queen right now, you just might be dead.

  All right, fine. Let’s forget it.

  You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve to talk shit to me.

  Come on, Justin, whispered Strawberry, he’s your friend . . .

  Shut the fuck up, bitch! he screamed, and punched her in the face. Domino, who was sitting in the front seat, looked away. Tyler bit his lip and wiped tears out of his narrowed little eyes.

  | 369 |

  I’m happier than shit, Domino mumbled.

  I’m glad you’re happy, said the Queen, who was squat, dark and perfect like some tarnished bronze crocodile figurine from ancient Nubia. Now you can go back to your partyin’ . . . An’ if you want anything—

  I want Sapphire’s little booty! the blonde screeched.

  Ah, said the Queen.

  | 370 |

  Above Seventh by the V.D. clinic there were two jet trails, and the sunglare was so white upon the gilded diamonds of the church dome.

  Sir, you’re too close to the counter, said the woman. Please step back behind the yellow line.

  The tall man pushed his wool cap up and silently obeyed her. He felt afraid.

  Sir, we can’t track you with the name you gave us, the woman went on. You have to give us your real name. We’re completely confidential. No one can release any information without your approval . . . —and she slid a clipboard toward him with a worksheet on it, requesting date of birth, full name, and suchlike personal matters. She nodded at him to pick it up.

  He took his waiting slip in his hand—letter U, it was—and laid it gently down beside the clipboard.

  OK, thank you very much, he said. His leg ached.

  You mean you don’t want your test results?

  That’s right.

  OK, fine, she said with a shrug.

  | 371 |

  Maj, I want to talk you, the tall man said. His sunglasses were as big and dark as a skull’s eyesockets.

  About what?

  About this problem that I have.

  Shoot, said the Queen.

  In private.

  You gals go over there behind those cars. An’ Domino, you take Sapphire. Chocolate, you too. Don’t lemme catch you listenin’. That’s a good gal. You all go an’ have a good time, smoke yourselves out . . . Allrightie now, Justin, what is it? You know I can’t fault you for sayin’ whatever it is you gotta say. You was never a liar nor a coward. An’ remind me to get Sapphire some shoes. You doin’ okay?

  No.

  I figured. You wanna quit me?

  I don’t know.

  Same old same old! she laughed bitterly. Sometimes I feel like it almost be scandalous, you know, me out here for everybody an’ no support. An’ without me an’ my rep * you’d all be—

  We’d all be what? said the tall man.

  Smiling grimly, the Queen fell silent, and they stood gazing across the corner at Strawberry and Chocolate in front of the Cinnabar, Chocolate in white shorts with her dreadlocks rich and shiny as she stood crossing and uncrossing her long brown legs at the passing cars while Strawberry sipped at a sodacan; then before the Queen knew it her two girls were chuckling and dancing round each other whispering and hugging and then a small packet changed hands.

  They say that the ten percent we gotta give you, you don’t give it all back. They say you featherin’ your own nest, Maj.

  So it’s about bread. That what it’s about for you, Justin?

  They say you took that bread.

  Myself, huh? All by myself?

  But just then Beatrice came running from Larkin Street, on her face a radiant look, and she did not know that the Queen and the tall man were having a private conversation and she was too happy to comprehend the other women’s warning cries because the old man who’d been with her had adored her and given her three hundred dollars all good cash money without any retribution at the end so that Beatrice felt at long last proven sweet as a pastry, hot as a candle, bright as the sun! just as the death’s-head the master of ceremonies had cried out in Merida so long ago, in words which Beatrice had snipped down to fit her shyly uncovered self so that she could dance in the air forever without anyone’s sufferance or legal permission and she was so filled and swollen with love that her joyousness outswelled the edemas in her abscessed varicosed legs and she could soaringly strut like all the Mayan girls who by virtue of the three stripes of floral embroidery on their long white dresses (which is to say, their Marks of Anti-Cain) had long since become angels. The Queen smiled and made a kissing face. Beatrice flew into her arms. Absently stroking the other woman’s long, greying hair, the Queen said to Justin: So. You want to quit? Or you want to bring me down?

  Justin swallowed, scanning the streets for vigs and rival beaver-traders. —I’ve heard it said, he finally told her, that you—

  That I what?

  That you’re in this thing with the cops.

  And what have you heard it said that I do with cops, Justin? Flatback ’em?

  This bread you take from us . . .

  So I pay protection money. Of course I do. You want me n
ot to do that?

  I heard a lot about that, said Beatrice. But you’re doing a favor for us, you know. If that money exists, who pay you for that? Nobody does. I doan care for the money. Nobody paid our Mama the Queen to do a favor for us.

  The tall man smiled slightly, embarrassed.

  Who says all this, Justin?

  He would not answer.

  So it’s Domino as usual, said the Queen. She needs a man to give her guidance. She needs to get off the streets. That Domino’s always in trouble. She’s so blonde and beautiful the men always be hittin’ on her, tryin’ to bridle her down with some pimp. And she won’t do it, ’cause she has me and we have each other, so she don’t need no pimp. An’ you believe her?

  Timidly Beatrice took hold of the tall man’s sleeve and even though his eyes were as angry and orange-red as the neon glare of the Queen’s Bar down on Harrison Street he did not dare to throw her off because the Queen was watching and she said to him: Please, Justin, you know in Tijuana there used to be a policewoman who used to hurt us by the hair, used to pinch us. If we want to get out of the jail, we have to pay twenny, twenny-five dollars. And if they get you out, if you come back to her street to do your business, if you doan have no more money, you go back to the jail. And even in this America it is not always all right, But we must say thanks to God for our Queen, for helping us with the police and with those others, those bad street men who used to rape us and hurt us. Now even the main street is correct now. The police they doan hurt us any more.

  Take my cigarette, darling, said the Queen. And go give some money to your sisters. Maybe you can buy Sapphire some shoes. Bea, you’re my special angel now.

  When they were alone again the Queen took the tall man’s hand and said to him: You’re not greedy. You got heart. I know that. Now what’s this thing really about? Is it about what I did to Domino?

  Hell, no, you got the right to do more to that bitch than make her come—

  Then what is it?