The Royal Family (121 page)

You think you can find him?

Well, your guy had
one
chance to hide his assets, Tyler said with a chuckle. But I have an
infinite
number of chances to find ’em. Who do you think is going to win?

Amen. How much will it cost me?

Minimum of five hundred. I don’t charge anything more unless I find something. Do you have his social security number?

Well, gosh, now, Mr. Tyler, I—

If you don’t have his social, I have to charge extra to get that. Not only do I have to access some expensive databases, I also have to run a check to make sure that you’re legit. If you actually have a judgment against this guy you should have his social.

Well, the judgment hasn’t quite come through yet.

I see. Do you know anything else about him?

Well, I don’t know how much money he has squirreled away, but this is his partner. His former partner I should say. I thought he was family, but he robbed me blind.

I get the picture.

Mr. Tyler?

Yeah.

This
is
Mr. Tyler?

Yeah.

I can’t rest until I get this guy.

There may not be enough money to pay off your judgment, sir, Tyler warned him. We’ll have to charge you five hundred dollars no matter what, just to kind of grease the wheels.

(Grease the wheels, laughed the tall man in the living room. That’s rich.)

I don’t care about that, Mr. Tyler. I want justice.

What’s your name, sir?

Bill Bullock. I treated him like a brother, Mr. Tyler, and he—

And your ex-partner lives here in the city?

I don’t rightly know.

So you really can’t tell me anything else about him? I suppose I could run a couple of traces . . .

Well, what’s your advice? Before I pay anybody, I need to know what I’m getting. It’s harder to
trust
these days.

I would never spend more than ten percent of what I might collect. You want to go ahead?

Five hundred, huh? What the hell.

What’s his name?

James R. Chong.

Lemme do some ultimate weapons research here. Lemme see if he’s on the California Criminal Index. You want to come by in an hour? No, make that two hours. Bring your retainer.

What, you mean pay in advance?

That’s what
she
said, Tyler laughed jeeringly.

Henry and his faggoty come-on bullshit, joshed the tall man in an affectionate voice. It sounded as if he were stealing Tyler’s cassette tapes.

You mean you can’t just invoice me? I mean, I, uh—

Well, think about it, said Tyler, hanging up on that potential client, who never called again. Stretching out his arm very carefully in order not to disturb the sleeping Queen, he captured the envelope, just yesterday received, which announced that it contained an important notice, and inside, just in case he’d forgotten that announcement, the blue-bordered flier began in flaming red letters:

and continued (employing typographical variations far more impressive than the monotonously chiseled words of the Los Angeles sign he now knew so well which said
COMPARE FOREST LAWN’S MORTUARY PRICES
):
You may already qualify for this
Debt Consolidation Loan
UP TO
$200,000!!!
P
AY
O
FF
Y
OUR
B
ILLS
—P
LUS
!
(At New Year’s, the green slope of graves had been strewn with Christmas flowers beneath the white statue.)

Letting envelope and letter drop out of his hands, he rolled back and began kissing the Queen’s lips.

He went to Macy’s and stood looking out at Union Square while Irene tried on dresses and she said: Come into the dressing room with me, baby and help me with the straps, so he went in and the saleslady came after him very fast and said: Excuse me sir but men are not allowed in the women’s dressing area and he said: Why? —That’s our policy, she said. —He stared at her. He said: My Queen needs me in there. —She said: Sir, you’re going to have to leave the store.

I don’t wanna do this anymore, said the tormented Queen. I’m so tired.

Of me?

No, baby. Of everything.

Where will you go?

Where I came from.

Who are you? he said. Where do you come from?

She continued silent, and he said: How old are you?

Well, pretty goddamned old. So now you don’t love me?

I figure I’ll always love you, he said. I just want to know you better. I really want to know everything about you, because after you’re gone it’ll be harder for me to understand everything if I don’t, you know, uh—

I’m yours, Henry. You believe that?

No.

Okay. You’re mine. How’s that sound?

Plausible.

Well, then that’s who I am. I’m the one you belong to.

Are you my God?

Kneel down.

He knelt.

People like you an’ me, baby, we don’t have no God. But sure. If you had a God, I could be your God, if you want. What the hell. I can do magic. I can love an’ kill an’ protect. I can hear your heart sighin’ an’ I can answer your heart . . .

I don’t get it. Please just give me something to keep in my soul.

That’s all you people from here ever say, just
gimme gimme gimme . . .

You know I love you. You know I believe in you. I just—

Allrightie. Look me in the eyes. Now, where I come from, and where I’m going, and where
you’re
going, there’s a big wide red desert of dried blood that chokes you when you breathe, an’ a big yellow sun made of burning, dried-up piss that stinks so bad you can’t hardly think, an’ there’s winged demons with whips an’ that’s all there is. All a body can do is run. But when you got the Mark like I gave you, they can’t do you no harm. They just move you along like the cops kickin’ us off Capp Street for two or three weeks, ’cause we got that gift. An’ you can wander around an’ try an’ find some shade, but
there ain’t no shade.

Will I find Irene when I go there?

All that dried blood, that’s from her.

I thought you said she was in Heaven.

Henry, she was, but you kept thinkin’ about her too much.

Will I find you?

If you love me, you’ll find me. If you don’t find me, it’s ’cause you breathed in too much of Irene’s blood an’ forgot me. But I’m not jealous of Irene. I’ll always wait for you. Just don’t let your mind go.

What about Lily and Sunflower? he asked in a strangely childlike voice.

They’re burnin’ up in that yellow sun, tryin’ to help us, givin’ us light.

And where’s my mother?

She’s in Heaven. You can’t see her no more.

But if I think about her really hard like I did about Irene, then—

You won’t. You know why?

I—

Last time I’ll ever ask you, baby. Try an’ answer. It’ll do you good. Henry, child,
did you make love with Irene?

I—don’t you believe I’ll be thinking about you, Africa?

Sure.

Don’t you believe you’re my darling?

That’s my line, not yours, said the Queen with a hoarse and gentle laugh.

And can I ask you about Domino? I kind of figure that she—

No. I told you enough.

Just tell me about Sapphire then. You told us that after you were gone then Sapphire would be you—

Yeah, baby. Lots of pieces of me in different places.

Tightly gripping his skull between her knees, she urinated into his mouth and he hallucinated with ecstasy because for him as for Sapphire the womb of worshipful craving could still conceive; the power of the Queen’s secretions had never dwindled, only withheld itself from the others for their own good, to prepare them to feed themselves; the mother had weaned her children. Later, Tyler’s irony gland, which itself uncontrollably excreted upon and tainted so much of his reality, discharged chemicals in his bloodstream which incited his brain to remember one long dim afternoon years ago in the Inn Justice when his buddy Daro at the public defender’s office had bought him a shot of Glenlivet and told him the tale of a defendant he’d had to meet in the lockup whom all the other uglies and miserables had reverentially avoided before because the man kept smearing excrement on his own head, then eating it. Revolted, Daro had pronounced the man insane, but one wise old walrus at the office had aphorized:
Never call a man crazy unless he eats
somebody else’s
shit!
And indeed it had transpired that this defendant, whose crime Tyler could no longer recollect, had been shamming. And yet Tyler himself, who might not have been crazy, was already craving to eat his Queen’s excrement. Why? She endowed Tyler with herself and all the good things which God allowed her to give him because he was truly hers and faithfully went in to her without scruple or quibble or malice, so she would not wean him before she must with her absence, and every fleck of her spittle seasoned his happiness more richly than the best cocaine or heroin. And so once again we turn to the notion of chemical happiness. —In my job I meet all kinds of people, and I don’t like most of them, Loreena the barmaid once said. If I drink enough, I don’t feel anything. —And whenever Tyler drank two or three cups of coffee his perceptions improved and focused so that he could see every hair on a passing woman’s head; and this temporary superiority over his accustomed listless dullness not only pleased him but also gave him hope. Was he somewhere else? Was he escaping anything? He would have denied it. He saw every character of every advertisement—didn’t that mean he was more in the world than before? Wasn’t he living more densely, resisting death?

Tyler was standing in the doorway talking with the false Irene, whom the Queen had asked him to put up at his apartment for one week and who had already been the subject of three warning telephone calls from his landlord, when a man he had never before seen approached. —Watch it, said the false Irene out of the side of her mouth. You’re gonna take the fall for something or else you’re gonna . . . —The man had been leaning up against a lamppost for half a minute, watching him. As he came near, Tyler casually
brought his clipboard down at an angle between them, keeping the man out of the doorway. —What can I do for you? he said in a neutral grey voice.

Can I talk to you in private?

The false Irene, who could barely hobble ten steps anymore but who could still shoot up heroin as deftly as a Kabuki dancer rotates his pretty wrist, thereby causing his gilded fan to flash like a fish in sunlight, stood there beside her brother, her protector whom she now desired to protect, glaring and listening.

About what? Tyler said.

Can I hire you for half an hour?

We don’t do half an hour jobs, said Tyler, keeping the clipboard between them.

Can you recommend somebody?

Try Wessels on Stockton. He might do half-hours.

Well, really what I wanted to do was put you back on Mr. Brady’s payroll. You know, help you out, cut a little deal . . .

Go on inside, Consuelo, he said to the false Irene. I’m right behind you.

He locked the man out and took Irene upstairs. She stuck her fishy-rotten tongue in his mouth. Gently he patted her between her shoulderblades, thinking: I participate in this not out of lust or disloyalty to my Queen, but out of duty. This is my religion now.

You got ten dollars on you? said Irene.