The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  Lying on her back, naked, spread-eagled and disheartened, she sought to tune in to the fashion channel, but there was only news. The television said: Police are offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of four men who allegedly kidnapped and gang-raped for forty-five minutes a twenty-six-year-old Alameda woman, who was left naked when they stole her car.

  Judy wondered if she would enjoy being gang-raped and then maybe beaten to death.

  The attack, which occurred yesterday night, is being treated as a hate crime because of comments the suspects made about the victim’s sexual orientation. The woman is openly lesbian and had a rainbow sticker on her license plate, a symbol of gay pride.

  Judy giggled. Who didn’t know what a rainbow meant? Not that Neva . . .

  The ordeal began around eight-o’-clock p.m. in the seven hundred block of Crawford Street, the police said. The woman was sexually assaulted in that location upon exiting her car.

  She almost wished—well, not really—that this had happened to Neva. Now she began to masturbate.

  Forced back into her vehicle . . . driven nine blocks away to the eleven hundred block of Garland Avenue, where she was repeatedly . . .

  No, I still love Neva. It would be better if it happened to me.

  Police described the first suspect, believed to be the leader, as a Latino man in his thirties, who stands about five feet eight inches tall.

  And when she came to my funeral, she’d be really really sorry! Oh, I like that! And she’d bend down to kiss me, and I’d . . .

  An African American man of undetermined aged who weighs a hundred ninety pounds, and . . .

  And she climaxed.

  She thought about getting someone to buzz her into the Hotel Reddy so that she could listen at Neva’s keyhole, or else maybe invite herself into Catalina’s room to be spoonfed Neva stories. Instead she sat somewhat dully at her makeup mirror, watching a tear tremble loose from her left eye. It had been months since she had looked so ugly to herself. There were times when girl power fables bucked her up, but just now no consolation came even from reminding herself that after Nancy Kerrigan fell down during her skating routine at the Seattle Goodwill Games, she wept, longing for someone to lift her up and dress her in thunderclouds, then trained harder for next time; when she wavered again during a combination jump in Prague she moaned I just want to die, then, having skated smoothly and confidently in Detroit, was assaulted by that man with a metal rod, so that she could not compete in the Nationals—but went on to win the silver Olympic medal in Lillehammer. Well, maybe two or three goofballs would make her feel like Nancy. Where could she get some? It would be too humiliating to go to the Y Bar, where even the Europeans knew she was supposed to be at Neva’s. The retired policeman might have pills. She’d better hide from him how upset she felt. Her mascara was smeared; she fixed it, then went on crying. Oh, well.

  It was a rainy night, and as she turned up Taylor Street from Market Street she smelled ganja where a black man in a wool cap stood without apparent reference to the accumulation of droplets on his transparent yellow poncho. Families and happy young techie couples rushed past her, into the Golden Gate Theatre to take in The King and I, a hilarious musical which the transwoman would certainly have loved to pay, had she possessed so much, her own $116 to watch, because it had won the Palladium Palm Award just last year or possibly the year before that; although one old lady had come for another reason; as she explained to an acquaintance: No, it’s part of the season; I had to buy the whole season in order to get Hamilton tickets!—at which the acquaintance reassured her: You know, it was a great production; I read about it on buzzywuzzy.com. Do you ever go on buzzywuzzy.com? Well, you really should!—. . . the sidewalk gleaming greenish-grey beneath the streetlights while the transwoman, slightly fucked up on goofballs, sincerely tried and honestly failed to count the lights on the marquee, then swished away tight-hipped beneath her polka-dotted umbrella. Now she was looking for somewhere to dial up the lesbian. The location had to be a tiny bit private, because right now everybody in the world was looking her up and down, judging her and secretly laughing at her, or maybe simply despising her for looking so ugly and goddamned fake. And now, just as Apollo gazes across the horizon, gripping his lyre, so stood a lordly young policeman with his hand on his rhythm stick. Terrified that he would search her and find pills, she almost stumbled but inhaled sharply, then crept past him with her eyes directed in full submission to the sidewalk.—The first doorway stank of excrement. She powered on her phone; Neva’s voicemail was full. Meanwhile, a block farther up Taylor, Shantelle bowed her head against the drizzle, likewise walking away from the Golden Gate; now she was passing the orange and blue neon of the Hotel Warfield, and lusting after a blonde’s rubber boots that flashed and glared with glamor while her own high heels clicked over the lovely bright grating of a manhole.

  It took Judy three hours to turn a trick, and her customer wasn’t very nice. She staggered away spitting and feeling sorry for herself; after awhile she made tears come. Despite her anger, the lesbian remained as bright to her as the Christmas tree in front of the Warwick Hotel, as seen from across the street on a rainy, windy November night.

  Ducking into the Y Bar, just in case, she found Xenia holding forth: So last night I caught a guy aiming his phone at me when I was onstage at the Pink Apple, and he said, oh, I’m texting my fiancée. Those smart phones, they have a flash, so I know what he was really doing. I grabbed the phone and I put it in my underwear. The guy wasn’t tipping me, and he was blaming it all on his lady, so I wouldn’t give it back . . .—and for almost the first time the Y Bar felt like prison to Judy, in part because Francine was absent, so after only two drinks (twelve dollars), she fled again. Five blocks up the hill at Hobo’s Piano Bar, where the wine was still watered down, although at least the water wasn’t, the balding pianist bowed studiously over the ivories, playing them glittery-jazzy, and Judy ordered a glass of the house white, hoping to feel high-class, but the bartender struck her as contemptuous, and she wasn’t going to stand for that, so she tipped him a single dollar, clippety-clopped over to the Mermaid, hesitated at the ten-dollar cover, paid it and dove in. That strip club’s golden twitchings as of a vast school of sardines, and all those girly-fingers like the urgently wriggling pseudopods of anemones, lost Judy in the aqueous element. Bewildered in that spectacularly almost loving golden sunniness of kelp, she swam from drink to drink, fixing on a fortyish brunette at one of the high round tables, while the handsome shaveheaded bartender dried the glasses. Now Judy was getting drunk, so she ate half a goofball just to smooth out her perceptions, but the half was so much more than fifty percent that it seemed pointless to leave the remainder to crumble away in her pocket; hence frugal Judy dispatched that, too. The rising and falling of the golden crown of kelp made the waves appear to be breathing. She felt, oh, so happy, or maybe just nauseous. The fortyish brunette was saying: Yeah, he’s mad at me now, ’cause I said horribly dirty things to him at the Doughnut Hole.—Then Judy started sweating. Why did they keep the Mermaid so goddamn hot? Wisely eschewing elevated temperatures, she ran outside, and when a yellow taxi swam past like a tuna with shiny light on its sides, she told herself: Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Click your heels together three times and say: There’s no place like home. There’s no place like . . .

  So in the end she did buzz into the Hotel Reddy to eavesdrop on Neva. Through the door of Room 543 she could hear Hunter’s gasping voice: I . . . want to stop—

  Now? came Neva’s voice. (Judy was touching herself again.)

  Not yet, just a—a little more . . .

  Now?

  Oh—

  Unless you tell me to stop, I’m going to hurt you again. Because you want it, Hunter. Now.

  Oh—

  Now.

  Oh. Oh, I’m coming—

  But Judy wasn’t! She gnashe
d her teeth, because Neva wasn’t doing it to her.

  What the fuck’s wrong with you now, bitch? demanded the retired policeman. First you didn’t have time for me; now you’re moping around here as if your plastic tits fell off. Oh, I get it. Your rancid little piece of lesbo ass oozed away from you, so I’m second best, and that don’t rate with you no more. I’m sick of you. I mean it, Frank. Get out of here and leave me alone. Get out; get out; oh, this goddamned pain in my chest . . . ! Go suck off little boys or whatever the fuck . . . Out, out—

  When he had medicated away his rage, he sat there deciding what to do. Like our last good President, George W. Bush, he sometimes referred to himself as the decider.

  First of all, he said to himself, I won’t live without Judy. But I can’t ever let her know how much leverage she’s got. Secondly, she’s not responsible for her actions. Brains between her goddamned legs! A true female in that respect. So I’ve got to make the decisions for us two. Now, what about Karen Strand? I don’t give a shit if she cornholes Judy every night, but she’s not going to pry her away from me or break her tranny heart. No fuckin’ more. Time to do something. Maybe some time-server who started teaching at Vallejo High in 1980 is still doddering around, and if Karen ever acted out, maybe he or she would remember, if I . . . Lemme think. That would be thirty-five years, but somebody who got hired at let’s say age twenty-five . . .

  First he dropped by the Y Bar to ingest some liquid courage. Most of us were out on business, but Al sat alone, pasty-faced and sleepless, so the retired policeman kindly explained to him why he supported the procedure called stop-and-frisk: Most of the criminals that get apprehended are on proactive—you know, stopping people jaywalking, stopping people with a taillight out. Over my last five years alone I did several thousand car stops, and gave maybe fifty tickets tops. All right, Al, my point is, why is this person nervous? Who does this car belong to? Driver says: I dunno. Oh, okay, now I got probable cause!

  Al said: What about driving while black? ’Cause African Americans say—

  Fuck them. What about driving while Neva?

  That shut him up. Al too longed to apprehend her.

  Now feeling like a million bucks, the retired policeman went home. Once more he inspected, which is to say gloated over, that Judy-extracted ancient snapshot of Neva’s: the braided girl on the bed stretching out her arms to nobody, not to mention its reverse caption: Waiting for E., Stanford ’74. Latoya and Marcie had never returned his text about E-beth, so he got back to Baby, who turned him on to Raven, who was wearing a short emerald skirt with the waist drawn well in.

  All right, he said. Tell me where you know her from.

  My real name’s Mariah Chambers. I went to high school with Karen, in Vallejo.

  You were friends?

  No, I kept clear of her, said Raven. She had troubles, and I sure as heck didn’t need more of those.

  Do you remember what her troubles were?

  You’re a cop, right?

  Yeah, but you’re not the suspect. We’re trying to solve a cold case crime, and off the record, Mariah, there may be a reward.

  What kind of reward?

  Let’s get back to Karen’s troubles.

  Sure, she said cheerfully. For one thing, she came out lesbian. I never cared much about that, but a lot of people in our crowd didn’t accept it. So I thought, why get involved?

  That was wise. Now, what were your troubles?

  Not your business, and here she stood and turned away, raising her arms above her head like a ballerina.

  Family troubles?

  You could say that, said Raven, sitting down again.

  What about Karen’s family?

  I do remember that her mother came to graduation. She acted very proud of Karen. But, well, that girl was always weird. Lost, pale and out of place. Jumpy, you know, like she was hiding something or maybe afraid of something.

  You think all she was hiding was her being a lesbian?

  She didn’t hide it. She couldn’t. She was often seen with this older girl, whose name I don’t remember; that girl didn’t go to our school.

  Can you describe this other girl’s appearance?

  After all these years, no. For one thing, I’m not attracted to women.

  And how did Karen seem?

  With her? Ecstatic.

  What about the rest of the time?

  Dull. Sad. Unattractive . . .

  Did she go to bed with any teacher? Sometimes a young girl gets a crush on an older woman who—

  No. The teachers kept away from her. I told you she was a mess. And she had that bull dyke girlfriend—

  When was the last time you saw her?

  At graduation.

  And the other girl?

  She didn’t come to graduation. I never saw her afterward.

  Look at this snapshot. Do you recognize her?

  No.

  Now read what it says on the back.

  Waiting for E., Stanford ’74. Well, that was four years before we graduated. I wish you coulda seen me as a freshman! Actually, I may be on retrochicks.com. You wanna see me, cop? No? Then I don’t wanna see you, either. And Karen’s girlfriend was, well, but I’d be amazed if she went to Stanford. I mean, neither she or Karen were brainy types. None of us were. That was one thing I’ll say for Karen: She wasn’t stuck up. But that braided gal doesn’t ring a bell. Why should she? I’m no stinking dyke, and besides, it’s been forty fuckin’ years.

  Forty, huh? I bet you didn’t get an “A” in math.

  Laying down the other photo, of the lesbian and some old lady pretending to be bellydancers, he said: What about this?

  Well, that’s Karen all right. Pretty well put together, actually. How does she look now?

  Not bad for her age, he said.

  I look better, right?

  Sure, he said. Who’s the other woman?

  No, I never saw that granny in my life. She’s a piece of work.

  18

  On a Mormon genealogical website he learned that Karen Strand’s mother was Rosemary, née Symonds, and born in 1939; hence she must now be seventy-six. She gave birth to Karen in 1964 and in 1976 divorced Kevin Strand, who suicided in 1991, so visiting him would scarcely further the investigation. Effortlessly the retired policeman entered Rosemary Strand’s medical records. She was a cervical cancer survivor. Her gynecologist had been Dr. Clark Nisbet. According to her social security file she had lost sixteen years as a secretary for a small downtown business called Smile Associates, and fourteen performing part time labor for a Mrs. Lily McKay of 2287 Delta Drive. Following her divorce she had claimed Karen as a dependent on her tax return through 1982, the year of the girl’s high school graduation. From the county assessor he learned that she owned real property at 73664 Triumph Drive in Vallejo.

  As for Karen Strand, she had apparently filed no income tax before 1982 or after 1986, when her medical history likewise ended. She might have been murdered then, and very likely, given Neva’s pseudo-nubile appearance, her identity had been stolen by some younger relative. No criminal records rose up. She had worked for low wages at a luggage shop, a library and a soda parlor, the last in 1985. Well, what did he care?

  19

  Judy came in shining.

  Francine said: Did you win the lottery or what?

  No, I just . . . This guy in a pickup truck took me around the block, and he, well, he did everything.

  Then you did win the fucking lottery, said Xenia. The fucking lottery—ha, ha! Buy me a beer.

  Me, too, rich bitch, said Francine.

  Judy said: Well, okay, but I . . . I mean, I actually didn’t make anything.

  Xenia looked, for the first time ever, shocked. She said: Why the hell not?

  He kind of overpowered me, said Judy.

  You mean he raped you?r />
  Not exactly. We mutually agreed that it would be more exciting if—

  You know what you are? said Xenia. You’re a goddamned scab. You make it worse for the rest of us.

  That’s not fair.

  Xenia came up so close she was breathing in Judy’s face. She said: I’m a sex worker, so I feel that I should be paid. If I’m going to go through the trouble to get cast in the role of the domme, if I’m gonna beat somebody up, whether or not it’s fun for me—

  Easy does it, said Francine.

  I’m sorry, said Judy. Now I feel so worthless—

  See what you’ve done? said Francine. You know, Xenia, you’re a smart and beautiful lady. You’ve got all the advantages. Let Judy do what she wants; I mean, it’s her frickin’ body—

  Aw, you’re so nice to me, said Judy. Can I buy Xenia a beer?

  Three dollars.

  And for you—

  Come on, Judy, it’s not like you’re some big shot banker or—

  Or Neva, said Xenia with an angry smirk.

  But I want to, said Judy.

  Your funeral, babe. Nine dollars, so that makes twelve. And your usual?

  Yes, please.

  That’s eighteen total.

  The transwoman laid down a twenty, and then Xenia, not ashamed of herself but possibly sorry for Judy, raised her glass and said: Cheers.

  They all toasted each other.

  Then Selene came in. For some time now she had left off her wedding ring. She proceeded to the dark side of the counter, by the retired policeman’s corner. When Francine went to serve her, she leaned forward to commence some private business, leaving Xenia and Judy to themselves while the straight man, who like so many ordinary people simply could not conceive that someone else (never mind oneself) could honestly love several people at the same time, sat forgotten by the toilet, wondering: Is Neva tricking us and do we want to be tricked? Finally he clapped on his headphones, which injected into his skull a kind of dream of lazy or frenetic girls’ pumping buttocks that turned from pink to blue as the music boomed ass ass ass ass.