The Royal Family (90 page)

Are you happy, dear? said his mother weakly.

Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’m more worried about you.

You sound just like John.

I get it, he chuckled. A headache was coming on—the same kind of headache as when some long snort of speed-cut cocaine wears off. He massaged his eyebrows.

Henry?

Yes, Mom.

Did Irene actually borrow my copy of
The Possessed?
I can’t seem to find it. I remember when I told her . . . oh, dear. She probably thought she had to read it to please me.

I’ll go look in the living room, he said.

There it was, in the third shelf down of the bookcase by the piano, in its usual place in the five-volume set of Dostoyevsky, with every book crowned by distinguished dust.

By late afternoon Tyler was going south on I-80 with the Bay on his right, shining blue, brassy and silver—a worked surface, as an artist would say. His friend Adrienne said that there was going to be an illegal Survival Research Laboratories performance down on Second and Natoma; they’d been banned in the city; maybe sooner or later they’d get tired or burned out and the strange furtive machine performances in night parking lots would come to an end, so he probably should have gone; he kind of wanted to, but he was feeling sick and tired.

He opened his mail, which said:

Dear Henr Tlyyyr & Mrs. Henr Tlyyyr,

 

We are pleased to offer you our unique financing program to bring instant, guaranteed relief from the burdensome payments you may be making on outstanding credit card balances, mortgage payments, automobile loans, and other consumer debt.

He crumpled that letter up and threw it at the wastebasket, but missed. Then he opened a beer.

He was behind on the rent again.

He telephoned the court clerk he used to go out with and asked her to please look up an Africa Johnston’s misdemeanor case from 1978, but the lady said: Henry, those records no longer exist. They have been deleted. Paperwork Reduction Act.

But I have the case number, he said.

I’m sure you do, she laughed. Listen, Henry, I really really
really
have to go.

Soon after that the vigs started coming around everywhere, terrorizing the street girls, calling the cops on them, and sometimes even going undercover to date them in order to ask where the Queen was, because, as Stalin once said,
Cut off the head and the body dies.
Once the whores knew who those men were, they rejected them and their money in scared, angry voices, but the only way to find that out was to go with them the first time. A vig whose gaze was as sick and ugly as one of those dark bars in which the regulars celebrate their own birthdays went up to Chocolate’s trick pad at the Royal Hotel for a fifty-and-ten,
*
fucked her without a rubber, then offered her a hundred dollars more to introduce him to the Queen. He said he wanted her for a bachelor night.

I’m
the Queen of the Tenderloin, said Chocolate. I got my own line. I lay out my line. They follow me themselves.

She was lying sideways on the stinking bed with her reddish-chocolate thigh up on the pillow. She hadn’t taken off her pair of copper bracelets all summer because they eased her tendonitis, which tortured her more than ever now because she was an old bitch as she put it. —You’ve jerked off too many pricks! sneered Domino, to which Chocolate, never tongue-tied, replied simply: Your time gonna come, Dom, just like mine.

The vig said: Don’t bullshit me, bitch. This is the last time I’m gonna ask you nice. Now take me to the Queen.

Chocolate with her beautiful kissable mouth and those sweet, hurt eyes of hers lay gazing at the man with an almost flaming gentleness, in order to conceal her intense fear and hatred, and she was silent, thinking to herself: If he starts trouble I got to grab my high heeled shoe an’ bang on the door till the manager comes. Then I’ll get eighty-sixed from here but at least I . . .

How about it, bitch? said the vig with a tight little grin. Ain’t you girlfriends with the Queen?

I have one girlfriend. Me. Me alone.

You know the Queen?

Nope.

You know Henry Tyler?

If I did, would I tell you? I don’t know you.

You know me now, the vig said.

Yeah, right.

And I’m
watching
you.

Well, watch me all you want, ’cause I ain’t doin’ anything illegal, and if I am, you ain’t gonna catch me!

What about what you just did with me here?

That ain’t nothin’. That’s only entrapment.

Are you the Queen?

You’re full of it.

Looking her in the face, the vig said: I hear the Queen does magic.
Black
magic. Listen carefully, Chocolate. I’m going to quote you Leviticus 20.27.
A man or a woman who is a medium or a wizard shall be put to death; they shall be stoned with stones; their blood shall be upon them.
Amen.

Uh
huh,
said Chocolate.

Are you the Queen?

Are you a jerkoff?

You gonna miss me when I go?

No.

Can I miss you?

No.

What’ll you do if I miss you?

Fine. You can miss me all you want.

Come blow me again, bitch.

Uh-
uh,
said Chocolate, sitting up and reaching for her high heel. —I already done my job. I’m gonna give you my mouth motor, first you gonna gimme that hundred dollars . . .

The man leaped up, overtowering her, and snatched the shoe out of her hand, so Chocolate began to scream as loudly as she could, and right away the manager came and she was safe . . .

And Jesus elevated Mary Magdalene above the rest, said Smooth. You know why?

Because she was a whore, said Tyler, bored. He could not imagine why he had wished to solicit the man’s advice on anything. Smooth was as lively as a bumblebee, buzzing and buzzing about. He exhausted Tyler like Mission Street’s slow and stinking sunlight.

Not only that.

Not only what?

It wasn’t just that she was a prostitute. Henry, are you listening to me?

Yeah.

Also because she was His
servant,
you see. Because she washed His feet with her hair. And when the Queen spits in your mouth, she’s giving you a chance to be elevated—

Well, Domino never swallows, said Tyler. She told me for her it’s the same as a blow job. She just tucks it under her tongue and then spits it out when she can.

Well, then, she can’t be
elevated,
now, can she, asshole? said Smooth.

And do you admire Domino?

Oh, she and I go pretty far back, said Smooth. I’d have to say I—well, I—

They were on Powell Street. A little girl with tight shimmery golden laces on her
sneakers took lipstick from the duty free bag and opened it, at which her mother nodded and lovingly explained.

I’d like to get into that, Smooth said.

I bet you would, said Tyler.

Ah, but it would be as illegal as a bail bondsman’s referral to any particular lawyer. You like illegal candy, don’t you, Henry?

I’m sick of your insinuations. Can’t you lay off for five minutes?

You’re being rude to me. And, you know, all this will end. Right now she’s your shield, but once she’s gone, you know what’s going to happen, pal? Irene will come
right
back and haunt you. No matter where you run, she’ll spot that Mark of Cain. Don’t worry; she won’t kill you, because God prohibited that. She’ll just torture you. She’ll say: You were supposed to be my keeper and you—

Mike Hernandez in Vice gave him the telephone number of a retired undercover cop named Morena who might know something about Brady. As soon as Tyler mentioned the name, Morena perked up. —Sure, he said. Don’t you remember that cop who got shot? Officer Marcus, his name was. One of his last duties was to work surveillance on Brady’s house. Who knows what he saw and what he knew? He drove to a big mall, I think maybe it was Stonestown. And the mall was closed. There was an eyewitness who saw something. I think his name was, oh, fuck, I forget the chump’s name.

Shot, huh? said Tyler.

Right in the everlovin’ head.

I get it. It’s starting to come back to me. Now wasn’t that the case where the cops themselves wanted to close it down?

Yeah. Marcus’s partner was the shill. He said: I disagreed with what my partner did. He shouldn’t have been in the parking lot of that mall.

What did he mean by that?

Nobody knows. He met with Internal Affairs and after that he refused to say anything.

So you think Brady had him bumped off?

Yeah, although I can’t prove it.

Well, well. So that’s our Jonas.

Jonas? Whaddya mean? This is the great Tyrone Brady I’m talkin’ about. You know, the guy Brady Alley’s named after. Patron of the arts. Jonas Brady now, I know who you mean but I’m not talkin’ about him. I got no beef with Jonas Brady. He’s a law and order guy.

In a crack-smoky room of another hotel which would soon burn down, the tall man was helping moaning Strawberry shoot herself up in her tired veins while Domino was insisting to the Queen: I said that’s not mine but the cop said
right.
I had a warrant outstanding so they took me in. So I was at Eight-Fifty Bryant and I was wearing my black and white polka-dot coveralls. You know, since I’m Domino I always try to look like my
name. It’s brand recognition, see what I’m saying? And they wouldn’t give me my fucking overalls back. And they—

But I got you out, Domino, didn’t I? I got five hundred dollars together and your pal Danny Smooth posted your bail.

What the fuck do I care about that pervert? Domino shouted. And if you’re trying to make me feel guilty you can just throw me back in the hole, so help me!

Domino, I love you, said the Queen. I’m always looking out for you. You know that. And you love me? You love your Queen?

Yes, Maj, said the girl sullenly. Of course I do. You know that.

Allrightie. What is it then, child, you want your overalls back? They should have given ’em back to you when they checked you out. Ain’t those your street clothes? And what about that silver cocktail dress you got?

A long tap on the door, then two shorts, then another long.

The Queen smiled.

Who the fuck’s that? said Domino.

You know who it is, said the tall man, looking over his shoulder, so give her some space!

Oh, said Domino, making chewing-gum noises. You going to fuck Henry again tonight?

I was fixing to, yes, said the Queen, looking her in the eye. You got a problem with that?

It’s none of my business really.

That’s right, said the tall man, so shut the fuck up!

Hey, Maj, when the shit comes down, are you gonna skip with Henry and leave us all to face the music? I heard a couple girls saying that.

Let him in, would you, Justin?

Hold it right there in the vein until I get back. That’s right. I said hold it there, bitch. Oh, Strawberry, you’re such a goddamn pretty little
bitch.
Don’t come on like some fancy girl.

Does the Queen like to drink dark coffee? a panhandler whispered from the side of his mouth.

Fuck
cappuccino! cried Chocolate, drunk and high. She’s got more than mocha’s got to offer.

Gimme a kiss, Chocolate.

I’m glad I’m not barbeque, the whore laughed, kissing him. I saw how messy you are when you eat barbeque. If I’d be barbeque I’d be all over your face.

Hey, Chocolate, somebody told me you also go by the name Brenda. Is that true?

Don’t
do
that to me, said the whore, her eyes narrowing, her face tensing into chocolate-colored steel.

Brenda, where’s the Queen?

Fuck off! the whore screamed in terror, trying to run away, but this time the vig grabbed her and held her and pulled slowly in toward his face to whisper: You’d better think about it, Brenda Wiley. Because one of these days I’m going to
get
you . . .

Tyler, sitting beside Dan Smooth in a taxicab watching the very slow rotation of a heavy rubber tire on a trailer which then suddenly shot by, exposing the man who stood with folded arms on the corner of Sixteenth Street by the Esta Noche bar, through whose doorway he could see winking strings of what appeared to be glowing and crystallized piss, saw behind Mr. Folded Arms a man in a baseball cap whose heraldic device consisted of a red light bulb with a slash through it, and then the legend, tricked out in white letters:
BRADY’S BOYS
. —Look at that vig, he muttered.