The Royal Family (33 page)

Henry, answer the nice man. Did you do your sister-in-law or not?

How many little kids have you popped, Smooth?

It’s childish, you see, to answer a question with a question. And just because you’ve met the Queen twice doesn’t mean she trusts you. I could put in a bad word about you if I felt like it . . .

And so what if you did? What do I care if the Queen trusts me or not?

You tell me, Henry. But if I want to get you, I’ll get you.

Is that a threat, Dan? I know how to deal with people who threaten me.

Now things are going ugly, Henry, and I don’t want that. I never dreamed of offering you physical violence. But you keep going out of your way to hurt my feelings. Put yourself in my place, Henry. Ask yourself how you’d be feeling.

Aw, he’s going to take his bat and ball and go home. Hey, I did some homework on you, Smooth. I heard about how you raped your own niece a few years back. Now I know why they call you Dan Smooth. At least you don’t use sandpaper. Do you use petroleum jelly when you break ’em in? People like you should be stood up against a wall. You’re a loser, Smooth, a sick, half-wit pervert. Oh, I admit that I’m a loser, too. The crazy whore was right. That shithead Brady was a loser. All I do is hang out with losers.

That’s my little optimist. (Bartender, one more round each, please. Here’s four dollars.) Does it get you
hard
to deprecate yourself? Does it, Henry? Does it?

Tyler rubbed his grey forehead, turning away. —Thanks for the beer, but I think you and I are through now, Smooth. I know that I owe you a favor. Anytime you want to call it in, call it in. But isn’t it kind of a waste to call it in just by making me listen to you flap your stupid ugly mouth?

Maybe we could be friends, said the older man with a sudden pleading look. I told you I saw that Mark of Cain on your forehead right away, that loser’s mark. You saw it on me. And right now the Queen’s brought us together, but she’s not going to be around forever. You don’t know yet what happens to the Queen.

Tyler leaned on one elbow on the bar. —So that’s what you want, huh? he said with a sour grin. You really want me to be your buddy? For how long? What’s the minimum time I can get away with? And do I have to start this very evening, or do you take rain checks?

Yes, Henry, I know you hang around prostitutes. But you’re not really one of them. When you pretend to be, you just act like a barbarian.

I guess that’s what keeps getting in the way of any possible friendship, Tyler said. You keep condescendingly defining my life, and you also enjoy irritating me by slashing at my privacy. And that pisses me off.

I think you’re implying that I should be more sincere. Well, Henry, maybe I’m sincere, but I just adopt a frivolous tone to protect myself.

Like when you talk about eating kids’ earwax.

Oh, I’ve done it, Henry. You can trust me there.

Yeah, all right. And this morning I took a crap, but I don’t have to go around telling other people about it.

Why not, Henry? I’d love to hear.

As long as we’re being sincere, I guess I believe that that’s true, and it kind of bothers me that it is.

Why does it bother you? You’ve never done anything to bother people?

I couldn’t say that, said Tyler with an almost jeering laugh.

Well then.

But if I do something that I don’t think other people will like, I keep it to myself.

If you needed to deal with me for business you could deal with me?

Sure.

And you have dealt with me. So that proves that you
can
deal with me, fellow Canaanite. You remember what happened to the Canaanites, don’t you?

Let’s see, said Tyler. Yeah. Yeah, I remember now. The Chosen People exterminated them all, or something like that. Moses got the word. No, they must not have exterminated them all, or there wouldn’t be all those car bombs in the Middle East.

You might be surprised, said Smooth, but I study the Bible a good deal.

No, I’m not surprised.

I know the Bible fairly well. Not just the New Testament, but the Old Testament, too, the real stuff, where God doesn’t hide His naked cruelty behind His Son. Do you believe in the Bible as literal prophecy?

Why, no, Dan, I don’t.

That’s good. I’m glad you’re not a fanatic, Henry. Well, the Queen is quite the little believer. It’s one of her sweetest qualities. (I could talk about the Queen endlessly, by the way.) Maybe that’s why I want to be your friend. I love to talk about my Queen, but I’m supposed to keep her secret, so you’re the only one.

Tyler waited.

I picked up my habit of Bible study from her, the older man continued. She’s a Canaanite, too, you know—did I tell you that? Sometimes I repeat myself. And she’s a witch like the Canaanites were—Baal, Moloch, you name it, she prays to it. I guess that’s why she knows so much about the future. I can see from your expression that you’re just being polite and you don’t really give a rat’s ass about that stuff. Well, that’s fine. But you did come on to me, and you came on to the Queen, and so I suppose you want to study us as if we’re bugs—or study her, at least. Read your Bible, Henry. That’s the best way to know the Queen. That’ll make her happy. And you don’t have to take any of it literally if you don’t want to. Now, as for us Canaanites, well, from our Queen we know that the Chosen People are coming to wipe us out. We may have a few car bombs ready, but I’m sorry to say that eventually they
will
wipe us out, because we’re the losers. Call it an analogy if you want.

Let’s see, said Tyler. The Canaanites sodomized little kids, too, didn’t they? And burned them alive?

You’re going nasty on me again, Henry.

Fair enough. But it’s true, isn’t it? I’m sorry.

That’s better, Smooth said with satisfaction. That’s the first time anybody’s said sorry to old Dan Smooth in quite some time.

All right. And if it pleases you, I’ll be sincere with you, as long as you’re sincere with
me
and don’t try to drag anything out of me.

Oh, so it’s not a reciprocal thing, Henry boy? You give me one thing and I have to give you two things?

I won’t try to drag anything out of you, either.

But that’s not fair. I’m
loquacious,
Henry.

Okay then. Did you feel any remorse when you ruined your niece’s life?

Would you believe that I never touched her?

No.

You’re good. I send lots of love your way. Would you believe that whatever I did to her she wanted?

No.

Well, would you believe it if in return I promised to believe whatever you told me about Irene?

Don’t say her name to me, sonofabitch. I never want to hear that name on anyone’s lips. It hurts too much.

I’m the Queen’s minister of foreign affairs, you know, Henry. Well, one of them. And if I make a recommendation to her about you one way or the other, she’ll probably listen, because she likes me and she doesn’t have envious
ears,
you see. I distinctly heard you ask her for help. Do you believe in the Queen?

Tyler hesitated. —I don’t know, he muttered. When I see her, I believe in her, in something about her. When I’m away from her, I think it’s all bullshit.

You’re honest, Henry. I like that.

Thanks, Dan. I aim to please.

Spoken like a good whore.

Something else we have in common. We both have a soft spot for Domino.

Ah, said Smooth.

I’m not in love with that girl but I kind of like her. She’s so
out there.

She’s had a hard life.

What got her started?

Well, it was very . . . She was found not guilty, but another judge found her guilty of violating her probation, so first he threatened her with prison, then he stuck her in a drug program, and she ran away . . .

How old was she then?

Fourteen.

That’s a shame.

You’ve noticed that I never asked why you were looking for the Queen?

Yeah, I noticed.

Then trust me now. Go on, drink that beer. What are you really up to?

I don’t even know myself, Tyler sighed. When it started, I thought that guy Brady was just a sucker and I could give him some thrills and get some money out of him without doing any harm. I never thought there was a Queen. But after a while he half convinced me, and then he canned me. And so I lost my reason for looking for the Queen. No money anymore. Then Irene died, and I needed something to do.

That’s how it is for me with children, said Smooth. It’s just something to do, although now I don’t think I could stop it, even if I were castrated. You heard about this new chemical castration bill they’re debating up here?

Dan, just what
do
you do with those kids?

Whatever. But only if they want it. I swear that by God and by the fires of all my little idols. And tell me, why do you think Mr. Brady wants to meet our Queen so much?

Oh, he can pay big. Not that I ever got much of it. He wants her for some sex act.

He’s the Chosen One, you see, Dan Smooth explained. He’s come to burn us all out of Canaan.

Silently he opened a Bible, drew his slender forefinger down Psalm 106, verses 34–39:

They failed to exterminate the peoples,

as the Lord had ordered them,

but rather married with the nations

and followed their ways.

They served their idols,

which entrapped them.

They offered up their sons

and their daughters to the demons,

poured out innocent blood,

the blood of their sons and daughters,

whom they sacrificed to the idols of Canaan;

and the land was polluted with blood.

Thus they became unclean by their acts,

and played the harlot in their doings.

At Ocean Beach, where Taraval Avenue ended, it was smoky and foggy that night. A small crowd stood around a bonfire which trembled and shivered behind a windbreak of wooden flats. The revelers, who were pretending to enjoy themselves (it was a solstice celebration) were shaking with cold. Sparks scuttered across the sand. Tyler stood on a street-level dune, looking down at them; their smoke stung his eyes. Behind them the dark ocean twitched.

He had never taken Irene here, and yet in his heart the place was somehow associated with her. The night that she and John had come to his apartment for dinner—how long ago now? —and Irene had insincerely praised the overcooked chicken (he
burned
it! his brother had jeered in reply. Henry, you’ve got to get married!), he’d remembered the lovely red and white herringbone stripes of some codfish fillets he’d seen just that day in Chinatown; he should have bought those instead, but the truth was that he had never cooked a storebought fish in his life. As a boy he’d caught the occasional trout or sunfish up in the gold country; he’d cleaned them and roasted them on sticks over campfires with the other boys; but seafood had made only exceptional appearances in his mother’s home. Those had been the days when—for inland white Americans, at least—the thought of fish conjured up, at best, deep-fried frozen fish sticks dipped in tartar sauce; they’d smelled like wet dogs. The truth was that he’d gone by one of those markets on Grant Street, expressly to please Irene, and for a long time had observed the white fish-balls, the yellow scallops, the tentacle-crowned carrot-colored balloons of marinated octopi (how to characterize
those
in a details description report?), the pouting-lipped carp so fresh they still jumped in the balance pans, the black and white X-patterns of
cod-skinned provender, the reeking raw conches on their beds of dripping ice—and immediately had become apprehensive of doing the wrong thing, of buying something that was no good, or cooking it wrongly so that it would taste foul not only to him and to his unpleasantly outspoken brother but also to Irene—and, after all, nothing tastes as bad as bad seafood. So, in the end, like many another politician, he’d fallen back upon mediocrity, and satisfied no one, either. Given his occupation, we can hardly accuse him of following always the pattern of safe thinking—although, indeed, what else should we have expected Tyler to do while walking a dangerous path, but to tread cautiously? As it happened, his undistinguished culinary efforts had been effective far beyond his imaginings; for Irene, seeing the dull red flush upon his neck and face when John insulted the chicken’s flavor and presentation, had immediately understood to what extent their awkward host had labored to the limit of his abilities, and pitied him—a pity no less sincere for her laughter on the drive home, when her husband apostrophized Henry’s dinner in picturesquely emphatic terms. Of course Tyler never knew of her feelings, not daring to raise a subject as potentially odorous as golden-red fish blood curdling on day-old ice; so after washing the dishes he drove out to the ocean, stood upon the sand, and indulged in feeling sorry for himself. He pretended that she was standing in the wave-shallows, that she smiled at him and (the goal of many a pervert)
understood
him. And yet, while the continuation of Irene’s heartbeat might not be an indispensable precondition to such fantasies, her death, precisely by universalizing her absence—he could not merely pretend that he wouldn’t see her in his apartment anymore; he’d
never
see her anywhere, never, never! —thereby legitimated his playing the game in any spot that he chose. All San Francisco belonged to her now, and Sacramento, too—and Los Angeles, of course, especially Forest Lawn . . . But not
just
Forest Lawn. Thus the magical energy of that spot began to decay.