The Royal Family (135 page)

All right, then, it’s not a compliment, he said. Where do we go from here? You want to get out of the car? I can let you off here.

In this rain? the whore said. I’m soaked and you want me to go back into the rain? Can’t you see how wet my pants are? And I swear I ain’t pissed my pants; it’s the rain.

It happens sometimes, said Tyler.

How much you gonna gimme?

Nothing. I’m doing the Queen a favor, is all. You just got of jail and I’m driving you home to her. That is, if you want to go home.

Ain’t no Queen no more. Don’t you know that?

I don’t believe it. Anyway, Domino’s the new Queen, didn’t you hear?

Oh,
her,
the whore sneered.

Who told you the Queen’s dead?

Everybody knows it.

Has anyone seen her dead?

Of course not, ’cause they burned her body. They
destroyed the evidence.
That’s what they always do.

So no one you know has actually seen her dead, Tyler pursued.

I think you ought to give me some money because it’s my first time, the whore said.

Your first time what?

My first time with you.

So that’s what you think, is it?

Yes it is.

Well, you can think whatever you want, said Tyler. He’d given up trying to ask her anything.

I’m tellin’ you, I’m
broke,
the girl said.

By now the car stank of her, the smell of unwashed flesh, dirty socks, excrement and wet clothes.

So you want me to drive you to Capp Street or not? he said.

You wanna drive me up to Market Street first so I can get me some french fries and a burger? I’m
hungry.

I don’t have time right now, sweetheart, he said. But I’ll take you to Domino if you want.

You won’t buy me a burger? It won’t take but five seconds. We can go through the drive-through lane. Turn here. I said take a right here. You missed it. What’s your fucking problem? Now go back and make that turn. I tole you I’m hungry.

Tyler, glancing for a moment into her scared and angry eyes, understood that she had been recently raped.

That was about the time that he gave up trying to make his car payments. It was the anniversary of his mother’s death. He continued to make inquiries about the Queen, even though the weary silences and insistent avowals of others conspired to uproot the last feebly growing shoots of his hopes. Everybody acted as though he were forcing the issue. He thought to himself: Why shouldn’t it be forced? I’m just disappointed that Smooth is too much of a mess to follow this through . . . —He was already two months late on his rent, and just as the heads of old locomotives sometimes resemble praying mantis heads or the beaked helmets of robot angels, so his landlord’s face came in his dreams to assume a strangely metallic appearance because Tyler was afraid of him and hated himself, hence deserved to be a mantis’s prey and he could not hide from fate the way that John and Celia could when they attended foggy windy Sundays of street fairs less festive than commercial: booths selling, or trying to sell, robot T-shirts, custom-made wine corks, earrings which resembled fishing lures, elaborate bongs with carven faces inset with colored glass . . . But he was still chasing, still hunting. He showed everyone photographs of his Queen.

He saw the tall man one Sunday morning in Berkeley when he was buying a ticket to be sped underneath the Bay to San Francisco. Sliding in three successive bills for a $2.45 fare to Sixteenth and Mission, Tyler clicked on the downward-pointing blue arrow to reduce the value of his investment by five-cent increments. When the coins came clattering back out, the tall man approached him with a murky gaze and said: You got twenny-five cents?

Sure, Justin, said Tyler. Why the hell not?

He gave the tall man a quarter.

Where’s the Queen, Justin?

What’s the use?

I visited Strawberry up in Rio Consumnes.

What’s the difference?

Where you headed? said Tyler then in a conversational way.

I can’t say, said the tall man. No place good.

Well, I hope your return trip is better.

It won’t be, said the tall man.

All right, said Tyler, wearily narrowing his eyes. I get it.

I can’t handle it, the tall man said. I still be thinkin’ about it. Now beat it. I don’t wanna never talk with you no more.

Tyler waved sunnily and went through the turnstile. When he turned, he saw the tall man mouthing and re-mouthing the words
Just twenny-five cents more
while turning away from the ticket machine, into which of course he had delivered no coins, and he began to walk upstairs. He saw Tyler looking at him and said with what might have been ironic servility: Hey, thanks, bro. Gonna get me a forty double up . . .

Tyler went downstairs to the tracks, angry and saddened.

You never call me or talk to me, an arch teenage voice was saying on Dan Smooth’s answering machine. I gave up on you
long
ago.

The FBI tracked the originating telephone number and extended the investigation.

[CENSORED] It is clear that Smooth sexually abused minor males and females at the Q Street compound, in addition to having consensual sexual relations with several adult females (misdemeanor counts of prostitution). A number of Smooth’s former friends provided affidavits detailing these sexual relations, including the sexual abuse involving [CENSORED]. [CENSORED], an employee of the Children’s Protective Services Agency, provided the Bureau with a cassette tape of an interview she conducted with a child named Sapph [CENSORED] who repeatedly visited the Q Street compound. This child detailed an incident of sexual abuse involving three counts of oral copulation with a minor and [CENSORED]. This child testified about her experience at the [CENSORED]. Also, during conversation between an informant and Henry Tyler during the week of December 21, Tyler admitted that he knew of Smooth’s sexual abuse of this minor female. The Bureau’s behavioral expert [CENSORED], in a December 2 memoranda to the Bureau, opined that “Smooth may continue to make sexual use of any minor male or female children whom he can lure into the compound.”

That’s very very interesting, he muttered, switching on his computer. That’s where the death records would be kept . . .

He stared at the screen for a very long time without doing a search. Then he switched the computer off.

Tyler was at the Wonderbar getting drunk. All the barmaids he knew had gotten fired. There weren’t any girls inside.

Have you seen my little streetbird? asked old Jack, clutching at Tyler’s shoulder despairingly.

Which one is she again?

You know her. She’s the most beautiful one of all—you know, the one who . . .

The old drunk in the cowboy hat interrupted them, shouting: Hey! Hey! Hey! until everyone looked up. —I was in this little old bar in the Ozarks and this gal six foot seven named Sal, she taught me how to jitterbug. Hey! Pay attention! I seen bar fights. I
seen
’em. I seen everything.

Yeah, I get it, Tyler said to Jack. But what does she look like?

Some days she says she’s eighty-five percent Sioux Indian and fifteen percent black. Other days she’s fifty percent Indian and fifty percent Irish. I say she’s fifty percent liar. But I don’t care. She’s my streetbird.

I’m trying to find somebody myself just now. I really don’t have all day. You mean Strawberry? I know where she is. You mean Domino?

Strawberry? said Jack in confusion (and ordinarily Jack, that piercing-eyed yet half-blind old ex-welder who sucked his wrinkled cheeks in against his skull whenever he looked a man up and down, was as quick to generalize as the Cantino map of 1502, which, showing parrots on Brazilian coast, named that entire country the Land of Parrots). Well, I don’t rightly . . . Strawberry! Yeah. That’s her. But to me, you know, she’s just my little streetbird. You should see her when shes flying high—Henry, you know what I mean—and then she’s happy and beautiful it just breaks my heart. There are times when I’d give her everything, and I
have.
Yes I have. And that girl doesn’t give a damn for me. Well, none of ’em care anyhow. You know that. Don’t you know that? They’ll just say whatever to get all they can out of you. They’re so ruthless—why, they’d set you up to be killed if it would benefit ’em for five minutes. Goddamned whores. But I don’t care. I don’t care, and now I can’t find her.

Strawberry’s in jail, said Tyler. I’ve got to go.

Strawberry? What do you mean Strawberry? Now her name comes back to me. It was Lily! You’ve got to help me, Henry, because Lily’s the one I love. Lily’s my—

Lily’s dead, said Tyler. But what’s the difference? You can’t even remember her goddamned name.

And he went out. They’d impounded his car. He must have parked incorrectly or something. He had a headache. He inhaled the smoke of burning trash cans and of his dead and burning Queen.

He called the district attorney’s office where after several wearisome recorded pushbutton choices he finally had the option of speaking to a real live operator, which meant that he was treated to a fifteen-second blast of classical music, followed by the voice of a firm but pleasant woman saying:
That extension does not answer. Please try again later. Goodbye!
—He tried again later, three times. Then he tried the criminal investigation number. Nobody there had ever heard of any Africa Johnston.

The Cambodian girl who provisionally resembled Irene, the one whose mons he’d rubbed through the polyester, sent him a letter which ran:

TO: HENRY ! ! !

 

I got you letter on 02-23-97, that is very nice of you letter, and I am very thank you to hear all those words from your heart.

I hope I see you again as a good friend and I feel so sorry that I can’t give you any love more than a good friend.

Thank you

SOEUN

He kept that letter for a long time. Then he tore it into strips which issued from his opening fingers into separate trash cans, because he was afraid of being unfaithful to the Queen or Irene . . .

Later that day he was on Kearney Street and saw John and his colleagues all in a football huddle, deciding where to go for drinks. As he passed them, they stared at him with the bright round goldish eyes of pigeons.

We’ve got fifteen PEMEX engineers working on the project, he heard John say.

Tyler’s face turned crimson. He waved to John without looking and hurried off, walking and walking until he’d come all the way down to Sixteenth across from the Roxie Theater, practically in the doorway of Ti Couz which was too loud or too busy for John except on weekends when John liked to feel free. Tyler watched cloud-cream glowing down on the slate-blue sky of twilight, lamps already shining in a row halfway up the height of each street-block’s dwelling-crystal. Now the clouds were going yellow. People rushed to dinner, cars peered troll-eyed ahead, and buses, almost friendly in shape, rolled up and down before him. A huge group of tourists received birth from a Dodge van and gathered in front of Ti Couz, reading the menu aloud.

The next morning John telephoned him.

Yeah, he said.

How’s business? John said.

Fine.

Don’t bullshit me.

You’re wrong. You’re trying to force the issue, John, and everybody’s always saying
I’m
forcing the issue but—

How are you doing, Hank?

All right, he said, his heart aching, remembering not Irene at all, strangely enough, but the Queen standing before the mirror with her arms raised, affixing the pink plastic curling set that Beatrice had gotten her, her armpits full of darkness.

Bullshit, said John.

How about you, John? How’s Celia? How’s business?

Listen, Hank, his brother said. What do you need to get your life together?

Oh, hell, said Tyler. I, uh—

I’m not asking this for you, John continued in a shriller voice. I don’t give a damn about you. But I promised Mom before she died. I’m doing it for Mom.

All right, great. You’ve done your duty to Mom. Now let her bones and my bones and Irene’s bones rest in peace, said Tyler, slamming down the receiver savagely.

My slaves know what to do when they’re in there, don’t they? drawled Domino.

The reaching arms in the cage, the stroking Queen, the strange squeals and squeaking in parallel with the black dildo that stank, still gave off an insect hive impression. A woman muttered: Well, it stinks because you haven’t . . . —Yes, she was talking about the Queen’s long black shiny dildo in that cage filled with women playing with each other. Beatrice with quick and fearful side-smiles told the Queen she loved her.