William Vollmann - The Royal Family

So does Dan Smooth bugger little kids? Is that what you’re asking me?

Well, does he, Henry?

I wish you the best of luck in your investigation.

Just answer me this. Do you like him? Do you approve of him?

Not particularly. There. I answered you honestly.

This guy is in trouble, Henry. You know that. Felonies up the kazebo.

Is that dorsal or ventral to the blazzazza?

All you have to do is cooperate.

Said the spider to the fly. Hey, I hear the Bureau is so behind the times today, still back in the 1950s and 1960s that they use three-by-five index cards. Is that just a rumor?

You’re a private detective, Henry, said the FBI man. In a very loose sense, you could be said to be part of this justice system of ours. Now, Henry, this is a case about justice. This is good against evil, Henry. Which side do you stand on?

As long as we have professionals on both sides, drawled Tyler, this great justice system of ours will be in good shape.

Tyler refused to cooperate with the FBI partly because after that first interrogation flanked by the posters which warned PARENTING IS DIFFICULT the memory of Dan Smooth’s face sat heavy on his chest. No matter what Smooth had done, he would not betray him. Perhaps Smooth’s semicontrovertible arguments that as it was he had already betrayed Irene, the Queen, his mother and John swayed his unconsciousness’s deliberations in the direction of silence, which after all defined the ethos of the entire royal family.

Biting his lip, he telephoned Detective Hernandez again.

Yo, buddy, what’s up? Any luck with that broad you were checking out?

Still looking, said Tyler. I had something else I wanted to ask you about. You remember that Dan Smooth guy you turned me onto that time?

Oh, hey, Danny Smooth! Do I remember? Do frogs catch flies? Hoo, boy, is that old lech in a heap of trouble! Kind of sorry to see him go down in a way, because he did help us out a few times, but them’s the breaks. You can’t be messin’ around with twelve-year-old nookie.

Well, Mike, I was wondering if there’s anything we can do for the guy. You know, he—

Henry, my very good chum, listen up. Dan Smooth knew what he was doing and he deserves whatever he’s going to get. He’s seen it coming for years. I know, because he told me. You know what I think? A guy can get away with things and keep getting away with things for so long, and then one day some insignificant little episode wraps around his ankle, and then he can’t get away with a damned thing more, because he’s done, kaput. Know what I’m saying? Dan Smooth is at that stage, Henry, and there is nothing that you or I or anybody can do except maybe grease the drop he’s gonna fall through after the hangman puts the noose around his goddamn stinkin’ child molestin’ neck…

What sort of proof do you want? he gently asked the telephone.

What do you mean? the woman said. Just proof.

In a hit-and-run homicide, is a fingerprint on a car enough to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt? I mean, for a probation revocation hearing, yes, but…

Mr. Tyler, I really don’t understand.

All right. Do you want eight-by-ten glossies of the two of them having intercourse, or will it be enough for me to call you up and tell you that I saw them going into such-and-such a motel together for one hour in the middle of the afternoon?

I—

Do you want to know or don’t you want to know? I’m not trying to bully you, ma’am. This is what I say to all my clients.

I… I guess if you tell me you saw them together in a hotel, that would — I mean, I…

I understand. What you never want to do in a situation like this is to go halfway. Better either to resolve to trust your husband absolutely, or else you gotta go for the nitty-gritty. It’s so hard to know anything, I mean really know anything. There’s always another explanation if you want to believe it enough. Let’s say you see the two of them humping under the covers; maybe you can convince yourself he’s helping her find her car keys—

Mr. Tyler, do you really have to be so graphic?

Sure I do. Lemme give you another example. Let’s say you’re in love with somebody who maybe doesn’t even exist and you — and you — oh, forget it.

Are you okay? the woman whispered. I thought this was about my problem but somehow it’s starting to feel like it’s about you, I mean, I…

Because you can’t ever know anything. What if the woman you love doesn’t even have a social security number or fingerprints? Then how can you believe anything? So maybe you want those eight-by-ten glossies so that years from now if you ever regret divorcing him and your mind starts trying to be kind you can take ’em out of the drawer and see how ugly they look together and then you’ll believe, yeah, this was real; this happened.

I see.

What’s your religion?

I’m a Catholic.

Then you do see. Because don’t all those crosses and relics and holy pictures help you believe? Don’t they make it all real?

I feel like we’re kind of going on a tangent here, Mr. Tyler.

All right. Well, let me just say one more thing. The reason that Jesus worked miracles was to provide material proof that what He was saying was true. If you feel bad when you get those photos, just remember that proof is a miracle. It’s a spiritual thing. Because it’s so goddamned hard to get proof of anything, and even with proof I sometimes…

Mr. Tyler?

Yeah?

Is there anything I can do to help you?

I’m sorry. I know I was going off on tangents like you said. Chalk it up to professional enthusiasm. Tell you what. I feel embarrassed now. How about if I follow your husband and the other woman for nothing? I mean, I…

Lifting his head, he could just see above the wooden railing the rival lecterns whose black nameplates read respectively DEFENDANT and PLAINTIFF.

Henry Tyler, said the voice of judgment.

Here.

V. T. & R. Credit, Incorporated, said judgment.

Represented, came the hearty, remorseless voice of his enemy, whom he’d never met until now. He and his enemy were sitting alone together in the front row, inches from that forehead-high railing whose sign commanded NO GUM, FOOD OR DRINKS IN COURT. His enemy was a pale, somewhat flabby young man in a blue blazer. Perceiving Tyler’s inspection, his enemy rewarded him with a sincere and indeed rather sweet smile whose only odious quality, if any, would have been its self-confidence. Tyler could not help liking him. His enemy’s colleagues, the agents who’d haunted and infested Tyler’s telephone for months now, who’d nagged, then warned, then threatened, and finally, in a stunning abrogation of their personalized ill will, offered to negotiate for pennies on the dollar, just so they could close Tyler’s case, these ghosts had never meant any more to him than entities which must be kept off; they shamed him and he dreaded them, for which cause he’d been rude to them, faithful to his cardinal axiom that one’s only choice lies between belligerence and cravenness. Now all that lay buried deeper than Irene’s bones. He loved his enemy. He longed to turn the other cheek.

We do have stipulated judgment forms that you will be required to fill out, said the official voice.

The previous case had finished now. A businessman had come in rolling an immense flat tire, Exhibit T. A cop had held the courtroom door open as he came. The door closed; the cop stood scratching his thigh beneath the holster. Now the tire was gone; likewise the businessman with his anger, his shame, his sweaty armpits and tire-grimed hands. — Judgment suspended, ruled the court.