The Royal Family (13 page)

Fine, said John.

Now, what do you need to get started?

Maybe you could tell me a little about the business, Mr. Brady.

Enter
taaaaaaaaaaain
ment, said Brady with a wink.

Anything illegal? said John. I don’t care who you are or how much money you have. I’m not interested in breaking the law.

That’s your bottom line, huh? Well, don’t worry about that, you little twerp. It’s all gonna be virtual reality. Electronic sex shows. Just masturbation with a few photons. No minors admitted, of course. I’m counting on you to take care of the zoning commissions. Your brother was just telling me how the Sacramento city council fucked over that Club Fantasy, made ’em install handicapped ramps for their dancers and all kinds of other shit, then pulled the plug because some day care center popped up outta nowhere . . .

My brother? said John slowly.

Sure. That pimply-faced Hank Tyler. Says he’s your brother, anyhow. I’m paying him less than I’m paying you.

What are you using Hank for?

Hunting up some talent for the big act. I guess you and he don’t communicate much, do you?

You’re paying me for my time, Mr. Brady, said John. If you want to squander money asking me questions about my brother, I can’t stop you. But I’d really prefer that you mind your own goddamned business.

Heh! heh! Boy stands up to me! I
like
you, Johnny! Listen, sonny, said Brady, waving a purple finger in John’s face with the utmost sincerity, you and I are going to
go
places.

Since the Queen had not yet replied to any of his letters (with each of which he’d included his business card, the answering machine number circled in red), Tyler made arrangements to meet his old friend Athena, who was as Greek and wise and upliftingly haughty as her name. Seeing her might get family matters out of his head, and help him with the Brady job, too.

She embraced him calmly, wearing a long black dress. They went to the hotel bar, which she knew as well as she did all the other hotel bars in that part of town, and she ordered a shot of Red and he ordered a shot of Black.

You look so beautiful, he said. Are you and your husband going to have a child?

Never, she said. How can I have a child and keep making calls?

Your husband wouldn’t be a good father?

No, she said, lighting a long thin cigarette. And what’s your news? You look tired. Anyway, why do you want me to have a child?

It would be nice if there were a little girl in this world who looked like you, he said.

That’s sweet, she said, smiling.

Cheers, he said.

Are
you
going to have a child? asked Athena in an innocent tone.

Tyler choked on his drink.

I’ve been looking for the Queen, he said. Do you know her?

Of course I know her. But we don’t exactly move in the same circles. Twice a week I do volunteer work and hand out condoms to the street girls—

I tried a female condom not long ago, Tyler said. It was like screwing a plastic bag.

She laughed. —You know what I do? I make all my clients wear
two
condoms! I’m a little bit paranoid.

Why do they even bother to stick it in? he asked wonderingly. I guess I would just touch you with my hand or my mouth or something.

Some of them do that, she said.

And your husband?

He only has to wear one. I don’t want to get pregnant, and I don’t want to take the pill, but he’s my husband.

Athena worked out of her house and advertised in the adult newspaper the
Voyeur.
Last weekend she had made in one day eight hundred dollars—six clients back to back, so to speak, for the full service; at the end of the day she was really tired, but it was the best money that she’d made in a long time. She paid off her credit card bills.

So you see the street girls twice a week? Tyler pursued, trying to be the conscientious detective.

I do. And sometimes I feel like there are two people inside me, one for the streets and one for the bars.

I always figured you were somehow struggling with yourself. You seemed kind of tense when I saw you last year. I was worried about you—

I was? I don’t remember.

You don’t seem as tense tonight.

Actually I’m feeling pretty tense, she said. I’m so bored with everything.

How much does the agency take? Fifty percent?

A little more. Not much.

Why don’t you and your friends set up your own agency?

You keep telling me that. You don’t understand. An ad in the yellow pages costs five thousand a month. I don’t know anyone who has that kind of money.

In Vegas they use fliers.

I hate Vegas. They don’t like me there. They want big tall blondes with those scary boobs.

So you’re bored, he said. How have the customers been treating you?

Oh, fine. I like some of them. One German banker just took me to Switzerland for two weeks. He was very generous, but I thought the food would be better. And I tried to get him to leave me alone, but he kept trying to make me angry . . . One man looked at me and said:
Do you do this for the money?
I thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard . . .

Tyler finished his drink. The lounge waitress brought him another. There goes seven or eight more dollars, I guess, he thought to himself.

Maybe I’m more tense because I know you better, Athena said.

Well, that’s a compliment, said Tyler. Hey, I want to rip my employer off. You know a good place to hide money?

I hate you! she laughed.

She was very beautiful and severe, a slender brunette with sad black eyes. He had known her for three or four years. —Athena, I’d like to see you professionally, he said, swallowing.

Oh, stop it, she said. He could tell that she was pleased.

All right. So what’s the best way to meet the Queen?

Write her. There’s a parking garage where she gets her mail . . .

I know about that. I tried that.

And did she answer?

No.

I guess she doesn’t want to meet you then, said Athena.

You’re right, Tyler said. Well, I’m tired. I suppose I’ll turn in.

He left thirty-five dollars for the drinks. As they were leaving the bar, they spied a knot of businessmen standing in the doorway, and Athena sighed and said: Maybe I’ll stay here and see if I can get one of them to go upstairs with me . . .

Just as he got home, the telephone rang. He thought it would be Brady, but it was a wrong number.

The telephone rang.

Yeah, he said.

Harry Tooler, please?

Sounds like a telephone sale, said Tyler.

Oh, no, sir. This is an
opportunity call.

Not interested, he said, hanging up.

The phone rang immediately.

Hello? he said patiently.

Is this Harry Tooler? said a different woman.

Is this a telephone sale?

No, sir, I don’t sell anything over the phone. I only want to tell you about my products, the woman said brightly.

No, thank you, he said, hanging up.

The phone rang at once.

I’ll stick my hairy tool in
you!
he shouted.

Just what’s that supposed to mean, Hank? came his brother’s voice.

It means I probably didn’t get that garage mechanic’s job, said Tyler.

Oh, forget it, said John. The reason I called is that I gather we’re both working for Jonas Brady.

Yep, I guess we are, said Tyler. Is it working out, being his lawyer?

I can’t help but admire the guy, said John. He knows what he wants. But since he also hired you, I wonder if he’s up to anything illegal.

I did a T.U. on him already.

A what?

A Trans Union. A credit check. John, he has very, very good credit.

He does, huh? said Tyler’s brother, impressed in spite of himself.

I ran him through TRW also and tied him to a social security number in Missouri. Nothing wrong with that.

That spying business you’re into doesn’t really make him smell like a rose, if he’s into it, too.

I get it, said Tyler. Since I’m working for him, he’s no good.

Exactly, said John.

Tyler laughed sadly. —So what do you want to know?

What are you doing for him?

Standard missing persons case. Well, almost standard. He’s looking for the Queen of the Whores, and there might actually be such a lady. I already have a few leads. Kind of interesting, actually. He’ll probably terminate me pretty soon . . .

How much is he paying you?

Oh, decent.

How are you fixed for money, Hank?

Oh, fine, said Tyler heartily.

I thought I saw you at the courthouse yesterday.

Well, I was, uh, researching the Queen because the computer only gives case number and jurisdiction for a defendant so you have to go to court and order the—

You’re a mess, Hank. You’re disorganized. You need help.

Oh, forget it, said Tyler.

You need a loan, don’t you?

I said forget it.

All right, I’ll butt out of your business. But can you swear to me there’s nothing illegal going on with Brady? As I said, I like him fine, but the fact that he’s—

Look, John. You yourself just said that in my line of work, people cut corners. But
nothing
egregious
is going on. I have to tell you, though, that the guy gives me the creeps. I think he’s evil and up to no good. If I find this Queen I’m going to warn her before I show him where she is. But that’s what I always do. You see, some of these stalkers—

Evil is one thing. Evil’s only subjective. Illegal is another.

John, just be careful. I’m telling you, Brady gives me a bad feeling.

All right, whatever. Have you called Mom lately?

Yes, I have. And I called the doctor, too. She’s not doing so well, you know.

You have the nerve to tell
me
that!

John?

What?

John, how are you doing these days?

Just what is that supposed to mean?

John, you know I’m sorry about—

Oh, for God’s sake. Can’t we leave her
out
of this? Just once?

Whatever you say, John.

And how are you doing?

You already asked me that.

Well, I’m asking again, bro.

I can’t say things are going so well for me, John. But you know I was always a whiner. Actually, things aren’t so bad. Why don’t you come on by for dinner on Thursday or Friday and we’ll . . .

Goddamned fucking jerk, said John. Look how he just sits there. Right turn.
Right turn. Right turn, you fucking asshole!

John, said Irene, could I please ask you a favor?

What?

Please please don’t brake so hard. I’m carrying a baby, you know.

Thanks for reminding me, said John. Fucking jerk. Look at him. Just look at him.

Irene grimaced and rubbed her temples. The red neon chain blinked around the yellow sign for the Russian Renaissance Restaurant where Henry had once taken her, and then the light changed and they were past it, Geary Street leading them deeper into the fog. Red bus-lights glared, ringed around with mist like the moon in some old almanac, and then after a long light John turned sharply on Nineteenth so that Irene was thrown against her seatbelt. They crossed Anza Street. John turned sharply left again. Irene felt like vomiting. Now they were crossing Golden Gate Park. The stream of tail-lights ahead of them in the fog of Park Presidio resembled the articulated scales of some complex Chinese dragon made of bright red paper.

I don’t want you to let him kiss you hello, John said.

Aren’t you maybe worrying about nothing?

It makes me sick. I can hardly stand the bastard as it is. If he weren’t my goddamned brother . . .

John slammed the car faster and slower through the traffic of Nineteenth, which sloped ever so gently uphill in the fog, everything grey; it would be a night of fog, with coronas around all the streetlights.

Tyler lived on Pacheco, just off Nineteenth, so he was actually very close to where the old Parkside Theater used to be—one reason that he had felt pleased with his address when he’d moved in fourteen years ago—to say nothing of the cheapness of it, thanks to quiet and to fog. John, of course, had long since accepted the dismal blocky ugliness of his brother’s choice as further evidence of ineptitude, if not of actual inferiority. To him the place had and was exactly nothing.