The Royal Family (102 page)

As a matter of fact, I do. At least I don’t torture other people for the fun of it.

No, you wreck lives because it’s
expedient.
Don’t you?

Dan, he said, I’m worried about our Queen.

Thank you
very much. So am I. And I know something you don’t, even though I’ve told it to you hundreds of times: She’s doomed, too. We’re all doomed. It’s the prophecy, stupid. Do you suppose those Brady’s Boys are going to fade away before they’ve hurt somebody? Everybody loves them. America’s on their side. Everybody hates us.

Yeah, I know, said Tyler, happy not to be attacked for one moment. Sometimes I search for hidden assets. Let’s say a divorced husband sets up a Caribbean bank account. He gets one shot at hiding it. We get fifty shots a year at finding it. Guess who wins? And yet I have to say that they haven’t found us yet; we could start over somewhere . . .

What do you mean,
us?
You think you and I are good enough or brave enough to leave the world for our Queen? I don’t see you leaving that fine apartment of yours unless you get busted by Internal Revenue or Consumer Affairs. I know
I
don’t have the guts.

But—

But your point’s well taken. The Queen could disappear anytime.
If
she wants to. Does she want to? You’re the one dickin’ her. Why don’t you ask her?

You know how she is.

Don’t worry about her then, the pedophile said, and suddenly Tyler began to feel Smooth’s replies leading him on
toward
something, good or bad he couldn’t tell yet, like the long thick line of San Francisco lights in the foggy blue night as he came over the Golden Gate Bridge from Sausalito. Whatever you and I know, she knows better.

So you’re not worried at all?

Did your envious ears hear what I said or not? Everybody worries in his own way, Henry.

Well, that’s a beautiful Hungarian proverb, but let me ask you something, said Tyler, swallowing hard and staring into Dan Smooth’s eyes, because in his profession he sometimes encountered what he called “dead-on reads,” meaning people who were absolutely unassailably lying: people whose eyes flicked away or people who blinked too often, or people who answered every single question when the questions dealt with fifteen seconds out of somebody’s day six months before. Smooth was lying about something, or at the very least withholding something. Tyler leaned forward, raised his voice, and said: Dan, is there anything about this whole situation that you know and the Queen doesn’t?

Cross my heart,
no,
said Smooth, his eyes moving away.

Is there anything you know about Domino that I ought to know?

Sometimes people just don’t want to
talk
to you, now, do they, Henry? Smooth chuckled. It’s like pulling teeth, isn’t it?

Don’t forget whom you’re talking to. I can check up on you. I can get your
tax return
for Christ’s sake.

What are you going to do, Henry? Put me through the polygraph? Now there’s a guy down the street who does that. We cross paths. My understanding is you can pop a couple of valium and you can just cruise right through it.

It’s something about Domino, isn’t it?

That Domino, she’s a crack monster. She—

Oh, fuck it, said Tyler.

Henry, I’m sorry. Domino’s balling your brother.

•

You will be saved from the loose woman, from the adventuress with her smooth words . . . for her house sinks down to death, and her paths to the shades . . .

 

P
ROVERBS
2.16–18

•

In the winter night they reached
OAK HILLS
, whose letters were tricked out in spurious gold on the wall. Steel gates slid apart. John eased the car down the glistening black circle studded with streetlamps whose Christmas lights had been formed into alien coil-springs of luminosity. This “gated community,” no community at all, but rather a monument to the rich’s justified fear of the poor, was actually, like the subatomic spaces between electrons, empty and cold. A manhole cover was shining. John drove slowly between grey houses whose black roofs loomed. Occasionally a string of lights blinked idiotically in some window (pathetically, I should say, pathetic as the mobile swinging in the upper window of the police station’s Juvenile Divison at Sixteenth and Mission. Can you believe what the mobile said? I swear that it said
LOVE
!), but most of the time John and Celia could see no electrons at all because the householders, rich, lonely old empty-nesters, had flown to Phoenix, Lubbock or Salem to inflict themselves on their children and bribe their grandchildren with presents.

My cousin lived here for two years, and she stayed with us, Celia said vaguely.

All right, said John. Where do we park? The friggin’ driveway’s full.

John?

What?

Did you hear what I said?

Oh, so it’s going to be one of those nights. What’s your brother’s name again? I like to know a name when I see a face.

Donald. And my sister is Leslie, but she won’t be there. I’ve told you about Donald so many times . . .

Yeah, that’s right. Lock the back door on your side.

Do you even care about my cousin?

What’s her name?

Ashley.

Point her out when we go in.

John, weren’t you listening? I told you that Ashley wasn’t going to be here.

Well, then it isn’t relevant information, Ceel. You forgot the bottle of wine. It’s right there on the back seat.

They still own me for another three years, Celia’s father was saying. I’m expecting that they’ll kick me out right before they’d be obligated to honor my pension, but then at least they’ll have to give me some kind of retirement package because it’s an involuntary separation.

Oh, don’t worry, Dad, said Celia, longhaired, in white slacks. I’m sure you’re going to go the full distance.

How much vacation did you say you had? John asked Celia’s brother.

Six weeks.

Interesting.

Are
you interested? the brother said challengingly.

Very interested, said John. I have four weeks, but I never get to take it.

I heard that Sis completely arranges her vacation time around you, and that’s why we hardly ever get to see her. Is that true?

Why don’t you ask her? was John’s curt reply.

John, this wine looks extremely expensive, Celia’s mother said. Are you sure we’re worth it?

Positive, said John.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this brand. Where does it come from? Is it French?

Well, there’s the label. Do you see it? It’s in French, so—

John, don’t!

Don’t what, Ceel? Your mother asked me a question, and I not only answered her, I proved my case. What’s wrong with that? Are you going to tell me I was patronizing?

John, there’s something I’ve always wondered, interposed Celia’s mother. People talk about good wine and bad wine. But I’ve always wondered how you can tell the difference, if you don’t go by price alone.

Two things to look for, John explained. First of all, the wine needs to taste like fruit. It can taste dry or even bitter, but that fruit taste has to be there.

He’s kind of a know-it-all, Donald said into his father’s ear.

And secondly, it has to have a steady aftertaste that stays on your palate.

He kind of talks like a fruity television commercial.

Oh, I see, said Mrs. Keane. Well, I always wondered, and now I know.

Tell John about your new TV, Donald, said Celia.

What? Why should I?

Because he’s interested, silly.

Is he really?

Very interested, said John.

A little shyly, Donald said: Well, John, I have direct TV at my place.

How big is your screen? asked John.

Fifty-four inches, said Donald. The screen here is only forty-eight inches. But watch this.

He squeezed a button on his parents’ remote control, and an action movie appeared on the screen, with a winking blinking menu embedded in the protagonist’s head. A person was hurting another person until blood came.

If you scroll down, Donald explained, you can hear the special effects on the ceiling speakers—
but no one is being quiet,
he concluded with a sudden glare.

And what do you do with your six weeks of vacation? John asked.

What do you mean, what do I
do
with it? It’s my vacation. I don’t have to do anything. And by the way, about your and Celia’s vacation, I just wanted to know. I was actually just trying to make conversation, John. No need to get huffy.

John’s not huffy, Celia interposed. That’s just how he is.

Correct, said John, crossing his legs. That’s just my nature.

You think they’re going to terminate me? said Celia’s father anxiously.

Oh, Daddy, sighed Celia.

The back office prides itself on being a separate company. And they hold all the aces. If they terminated me, you think your legal eagle boyfriend could help me sue?

Sure, said John cheerfully. Pro bono.

How many people have you sued?

Thousands. They’re all dead now.

Celia’s mother, whose nervousness had already been aroused by the exchanges between John and Donald, tried to think of something to say and finally blurted: Are you still in your mourning period, John? I always thought it was good manners if the mourning period lasted a year.

Well, let’s see now, he said, raising his eyebrows. How long has it been since my wife killed herself? That’s what you’re asking me, right? I mean, why put too fine a point on it?

Please, John, whispered Celia, her eyes watering. Mama didn’t mean any harm.

Oh, well, forget it, John began, and if someone had rushed to dilute the silence he might have truly been able to let the topic pass, but since Donald was so evidently distempered by his bluntness, and since Celia’s parents, their countenances well sculpted but slightly timeworn, like the Elgin Marbles, hung on his words like vampires, he knew that if he did not speak he would choke with sadness, humiliation and rage, so he burst out, staring them all down: June twenty-seventh. Is that what you were all fishing for?

John, I’m so sorry. I—

She was a great gal, you know, terrific gal. But I’ll tell you something, Mrs. Keane (and here a horrid smile crossed his lips. Celia was tongue-tied with dread.). She couldn’t keep house as well as Celia here. Would you believe that?

John—

Your daughter sure knows how to clean. I’ll say that much for her. She knows what’s important to me. I’ll give you an example. She was the one who hit on that Blue Wave cleanser. That took the stains right off. Well, most of the stains. I still had to get the bathtub refinished. They say blood and protein’s the worst. And today is December twenty-first. So that makes a hundred and seventy-seven days, or six months, depending on how you count—how do you count a month, Mrs. Keane? Do you use the lunar month of twenty-eight days or the variable calendar month? Since June has thirty days and July has thirty-one days, was July twenty-seventh the one month anniversary of her death or not? Donald, my man, a penny for
your
friggin’ thoughts.

John, I’m
so
sorry, said Celia’s mother.

Now, what we need to determine, he went on, raising his voice, is whether Emily Post and the other mavens of etiquette actually permit me to be here whooping it up with you
fine
people on this—should we call it a
fine
evening? —or whether it would be more befitting for me to sit in a bar somewhere in the Tenderloin, the way my grungy brother would—

That’s a district of San Francisco, Celia explained brightly, clenching her fists.