William Vollmann - The Royal Family

I always thought this Queen was a little like Gotti in New York, Brady laughed. I always thought you really burden yourself once you go out and make a big name for yourself.

Yeah, maybe that’s her thinking, said Tyler, not really listening.

The crazy whore stayed inside the garage for only about ten minutes, which implied that it might be some kind of message drop. (Brady yawned and did not cover his mouth.) Then her glowing trail unraveled itself almost as quickly as it had formed and snailed, shrinking all the way back to Ellis and Jones, where she stopped for five minutes, probably to make a crack buy, and then back to her hotel room. Tyler smiled again.

I’m tired, Brady said.

Tyler left his boss sitting in the car outside, tiptoed up the stairs, and put his ear to the crazy whore’s door. He heard her singing in a sad voice:

They called me Flower-of Gold,

and they called me Flower-of-Silk,

but when I became Queen of the Fold

they bathed me never in milk.

His boss had to go to Vegas for business. Tyler drove him to the airport. Then he drove home and took a cab to North Beach on Brady’s nickel, just to see what the cab drivers knew. The first driver didn’t know anything. Tyler was feeling pretty good. He went out for Italian food, pretending that the woman he wasn’t supposed to love was sitting across from him. If he sat at home he’d get depressed. He didn’t like to read anymore, and he hated television. Darkroom chemicals were expensive. There wasn’t a lot to do.

The cab driver back to the Sunset was a Russian who was listening to a scratchy cassette of sad Russian songs sung by a woman whose voice was more rich and expressive than the crazy whore’s, but her sadness was the same. The driver obviously loved it. Every time the dispatcher tried to call him on the radio, he’d sigh: Idiot.

Were you a soldier? said Tyler.

The Russian nodded glumly, whistling.

Afghanistan?

Afghanistan.

What was your job?

Meteorologist, said the Russsian, and Tyler didn’t believe him.

You must have seen some bad things, Tyler said.

The Russian nodded.

I saw two people get killed today, said Tyler, just to see if he was listening.

Tough, growled the Russian sympathetically, shrugging his pale wide shoulders.

Do you know the Queen? said Tyler.

Not in my organization. Another one. Before, was in mine. Now finished.

Tough, said Tyler, shrugging his shoulders.

Your country finished, said the Russian. You have a problem, a black problem.

The ruby light winked on his answering machine, like one of Carol Doda’s nipples back in the old days on the neon sign for the Condor. Carol Doda had a lingerie shop on Union Street now. Once Tyler had gone inside to pick out something for his sister-in-law Irene, but he hadn’t bought anything, and he never knew whether or not the woman at the cash register was Carol Doda. Now he sat sipping at his Black Velvet, halfheartedly checking boxes on his surveillance report for Brady while he gazed across the street at one of those prismatic Victorian windows aflame with something which tigerishly shone beneath curtains. When he finished the whiskey, the answering machine was still blinking.

A long, friendly message: Somebody wanted him to spy on her husband to see if he were being unfaithful.

Tyler called back. — You know, lady, he said, divorce in California is no-fault. You don’t have to prove adultery to file.

Oh, I understand that, the woman said. I just want to know. I really need to know.

Knowledge is pretty expensive, said Tyler dreamily, checking boxes on his surveillance report. And I’m booked up shadowing royalty right now. Tenderloin royalty.

How about a hundred dollars? the woman said.

A hundred wouldn’t even prime my pump, said Tyler. If you want to prime my pump you have to give me five. And it could run into thousands. What if he only does her once a month? What if he takes her out of town? If he goes out of town then I’ve got to go out of town, too, and that’s going to cost you.

You’re kind of discouraging, the woman said. Almost insulting, too, I should say.

I aim to be, said Tyler. I want you to think long and hard before you decide to go through with this. Most people who come to me don’t like what I show them.

Five hundred is an awful lot of money, the woman said. And you’re not very nice.

I agree. So why don’t you think about it and go to your teller machine to check your bank balance and look your husband in the eye and decide if you want to hate him even more than it sounds like you already do? You’re welcome to hate me instead. That’s my advice, and it’s free advice.

Thank you, the woman said palely.

All right, said Tyler.

He had another Black Velvet and called his brother’s place, but there was no answer. He started to call Brady at the hotel, but thought better of it and hung up.

He tried to locate Sapphire on three databases, but of the sixteen women he found, two supposedly dwelled in Ketchikan, Alaska, and none of the others showed up in California. Maybe the crazy whore was just crazy. More likely, Sapphire was an unregistered nickname.

I seen you! giggled the next girl. She had reddish-pale hair, and the bulb-light exposed her pimpled cheeks. — You was with that blonde Strawberry. No. That’s not Strawberry. That’s Domino.

And what’s your name? said fresh-from-Vegas Brady, who always wanted to take charge.

Why? said the smoothwaxed lips. You datin’? You datin’?

Of course I’m dating, said Brady, oozing what Tyler considered to be unprofessional glee. My name’s Mr. Breakfast, and this is my friend Mr. Lunch. He says he’s not sexually or emotionally compromised. Do you believe him?

I never heard names like that before, said the lips. Set just above that pale chin, they almost reached the gigantic sunglasses.

Well, what’s your name then?

Kitty.

Kitty as in pussy?

Hey, Mr. Breakfast, you got me wrong. I’m not a prostitute. I’ve just fallen on some hard times, that’s all.

How much?

How much you got to spend?

Twenty.

Uh huh. You wanna feed my kitty? And does Mr. Lunch wanna do somethin’? You can come in my mouth or anything you want.

Speaking of mouths, Tyler broke in, guess what your friend Domino told us.

Friend? That bitch ain’t my friend. Any friend she had she stabbed in the back long ago!

She told us she was the Queen of the Whores.

She did? Shit! And you believed her? That bitch must’ve been strung out. Too much junk!

She told us all the other girls worked for her, said Tyler, sounding as stupid as he could. She said she’s the Queen.

She’s not. There’s no such thing.

But she said—

I don’t care what she said. She’s full of shit. She don’t have shit. It’s a man’s world.

You know, said Brady in wonder, she was really strange. She started getting friendly as soon as we started giving her money. Why do you think that is?

Oh, shit! laughed Kitty.

Tyler hung his head. — And Sapphire said… he whispered.

What do you mean, Sapphire said? That retarded bitch can’t even talk! Only mouth she uses is the one between her legs…

But the Queen…

How many times I got to tell you there ain’t no Queen? If there was a Queen, she’d just be a pimp that’s got a pussy. Why should you care? You don’t want to hang out with no pimp.

You think we should see Domino again? said Tyler. Maybe if we gave her more money she could explain things to us.