William Vollmann - The Royal Family

His friend Mike Hernandez in Vice called his machine and said: Listen, chum, as far as I’m concerned, rumors of the Queen’s existence have been greatly exaggerated. Not much comes out of that parking garage except the odd D.U.I. Well, I guess it’s always good for the occasional blowjobbing or flatbacking bust, but there haven’t even been too many of those lately. Sometimes I catch ’em across the street. If there is a Queen, you know who might know about it, uh, what’s his name, uh, Dan Smooth; you don’t wanna—

The machine beeped and cut Mike Hernandez off.

Hernandez called again. — Right, well, as I was saying, we don’t use him if we don’t have to, but the guy knows a lot. Lemme see if I have his… Hell, kind of a mess here. You know who might — no, screw that, just try the Sacramento listings, although I sometimes see him drinking by himself in North Beach. Anyway, gotta go, buddy; good luck with it. Gimme a—

The machine cut him off.

John called his machine and said: Disregard my other message. I don’t need to talk to you after all.

Brady called his machine and said: Listen, this is you know who; I forgot to say if you have any more of those surveillance reports, enclose those with your bill; I need ’em for my files.

The red light winked slyly. Outside he heard the finger-on-picket-fence sound of a key in a car lock.

The dental hygienist called his machine and said: Mr. Tyler, this is Marlene at Dr. Kinshaw’s office, and we have you scheduled for Tuesday for your six-month checkup and cleaning. Could you please call me if you have any problems in keeping that appointment? If not, I’ll look forward to seeing you on Tuesday at 10:30.

Somebody called his machine and didn’t leave a message.

Somebody did the same thing, again and again.

In the waxed faux-marble corridors of the municipal court building in Sacramento, double rows of reflected ceiling lights distorted themselves from circles into ovoids, and the jurors sworn, potential and alternate sat (the lucky early birds) or leaned against the walls, professional types complaining about how business was going to hell in their absence, while retirees declaimed about their children or the state of public schools today. A leggy woman looked around helplessly, then finally seated herself upon her briefcase, knees straining together as she sipped from a carton of chocolate milk. — I was raised a Catholic, and even I had second thoughts, the lady beside her said.

The door to Department Forty opened, and inside Tyler saw the table where the greasy-haired defendant, a boy, sat slumped beside a maternal public defender. Beside them swaggered the bailiff with his hands on his hips. Ceiling lights reflected on the D.A.’s balding forehead. The D.A. looked very pleased with himself. It must be an open-and-shut case of rape or something of the sort, yes, something unsavory, because old Dan Smooth, dressed in his Sunday best, was still sitting in the hall, waiting to be called as an expert witness.

Yeah, what’re you going to do for me, bub? he said. You’re Henry Tyler. Are you going to do for me what old John Tyler did for the Whigs?

Got time to meet me for a drink later this afternoon, Mr. Smooth?

Well, uh, Henry, I don’t know how long this shindig is going to last. And I did say what’re you going to do for me?

I’ll pay for the drinks.

Not good enough. Everybody wants to buy old Dan Smooth a drink. All the chippies are vying for the privilege of… What do I need your alcohol for?

Mike Hernandez down in San Francisco tells me you’re a very honest and generous man, Tyler hazarded.

He does, now, does he? Doesn’t sound like the Mike Hernandez I know, that skinny little…

Daniel Clement Smooth, please, said the bailiff.

Oh, they’re playing my song, said Smooth. I don’t mind telling you that I enjoy it. How about tomorrow? I’ll meet anyone, any time. I’m a democratic kind of guy.

Can’t do it, Mr. Smooth—

Call me Dan.

All right, Dan. I have some business down in L.A.

Mr. Smooth, if you don’t come into the courtroom right now there’s going to be a bench warrant issued, said the bailiff.

All right, Henry, mumbled Smooth. I’ll be at Vesuvio’s in North Beach on Friday round about eight o’clock…

He adjusted his soiled necktie and followed the bailiff importantly inside, bearing a sheaf of photographs in a translucent plastic envelope.

Tyler let out a weary breath.

In the jury pool lounge some were sitting with their heads in their hands, some were reading, a few completing their voir dire questionnaires, and many were good-humoredly laughing, playing cards while bystanders called out advice. Tyler sat down among them for a moment and thought about Irene.

Vesuvio’s, eh? That fancy tourist place? It hardly seemed like a Dan Smooth kind of place. It definitely wasn’t a Tyler sort of place — unless Tyler were trying to impress, entertain, comfort or prey upon Irene. Its Sacramento analogue might be — what? Tyler’s thoughts were covered with mold, like the bluish-purple felt on the pool tables upstairs at the Blue Cue, John’s kind of place, where laughingly incompetent couples paid thirteen dollars an hour to bend and click, the women often saying shit in low voices when they missed, an Asian girl in a black, black miniskirt cleaning up after them, setting the balls back into the triangular form and shaking them, laying the cue ball exactly onto the dot, gathering up used drinks from the long metal bar which guarded an expanse of tall mirror. (Tyler’s kind of place was the Swiss Club, an ancient bar which smelled of cigarette smoke and whose air oozed globules of weak light splashed with booze.)

Dan Smooth didn’t fool him. Dan Smooth was not and never would be the John type, the elegant or snotty professional type. Dan Smooth was the sleazy barfly type, the lowlife type, the Henry Tyler type.

Tyler knew a pretty little exomphalous court clerk who’d once made eyes at him. Every now and then he called her up and asked her for favors. This time when he telephoned, he wanted to know whether he could take her to dinner. It was time for payment, he said. Actually he was hoping to find out more about Dan Smooth. But the girl explained that she had a boyfriend now.

Okay, sweetheart, said Tyler, a little relieved. I’ll cross you off my list.

He had a dream that he and Irene were married and had a child, a slender half-Asian girl whom Irene was teaching how to throw a frisbee for the dog.

It being only Tuesday, Tyler possessed sufficient time to drive down to Los Angeles and back before the appointed day with Dan Smooth. His mother, bored and irritated by her own physical frailty, preferred for the sake of that novelty disguised as familial love to peer anxiously into Tyler’s problems. In short, she did not want him to go away.

I have a little job, he lied. It may be lucrative.

Then shall I call you tonight, dear?

No, I may be out on surveillance all night.

Tell me, Henry, is your work dangerous?

Not really, Mom. I try to avoid the dangerous stuff.

Sit down, said Mrs. Tyler abruptly.

The rust-colored blinds were always down in his mother’s living room, her car keys always on the piano stool. Tyler sighed and took a corner of the sofa. The car keys sparkled. — How are you feeling? he said.

Not very well, replied his mother almost bitterly. And worrying about you makes it worse.

I’m sorry, Mom, he said almost inaudibly. Tell me what I can do.

I want you to make up with John.

I don’t know how much use that would be, said Tyler. Nothing like that ever lasts between John and me. You know we’ve both tried.