William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Don’t have nothing to do with her would be my advice.

Well, what should we tell her next time we see her?

Her? Tell her get lost, man. She’s a nut! All she’s gonna do is get you in trouble. She probably has warrants and shit.

Tyler nodded solemnly. — Well, Kitty, why don’t you and Mr. Breakfast go do your business in that parking garage over there? I’ll just sit here and jerk off.

Mr. Breakfast is gonna make you wait on him? cried Kitty in amazement. Tell him he oughta pay you for that.

I’ll tell him.

You hear that, Mr. Breakfast?

Yeah, I heard, Kitty. Now let’s go to that garage.

I don’t trust that garage. I’ll take you to a better place.

I’ll pay ten bucks extra to take me into that garage, said Brady caressingly.

Kitty scuffed her high heels sadly on the sidewalk. — No, thank you, Mr. Breakfast. I don’t never go in there.

The new hotel room smelled bad. Brady, who’d turned the TV on, ignored it, almost slicing the stack of photos with his nose. The bed sagged down toward him, the blue and white bedspread like the bottom of a canted swimming pool. The TV glowed orange and said: … the significance of this historic achievement. The two men stood discussing money over the round table. Tyler leaned, staring very hard at the stacks of expense money. The eyes in his grey face slowly narrowed as he thought: If only all this money belonged to me, I could run away with Irene. I could take her down a well and we’d stay there making babies and never get out… — Brady, whose feet hurt, leaned backward on his heels, looking softly down at the money while he was explaining. Although the greenbacks lay between them, it was obvious to whom they belonged: Brady kept pointing to them and sometimes touching them, while Tyler gazed down almost shyly. The window was open, and across the gulf between ratridden buildings another window was open, through which the blonde whore Domino was watching them. Tyler smirked and waved. Brady did not see.

I think the garage is the place, said Brady.

Well, boss, you might be right.

You don’t think so, do you?

It’s too early to say.

Arentcha cold? the whore said.

A sunburst of hair, short arms over boobs bigger than the wheels of a Greyhound bus. Her sweater was as nice as light.

You going to warm me up? said Tyler, as enthusiastically as if he hadn’t asked that question a hundred times already.

The black girl’s hair was bright against the dirty white of a massage parlor wall. She leaned to nurse her hair as if it were some elaborately tender creature.

Tell you the truth, said Tyler confidentially, I’m looking for the Queen.

Honey, you done come to the wrong place. This here’s a hundred percent girl you’re talkin’ to! Try the Black Rose.

You know what I mean. Not that kind of queen, but the one that runs things. The Big Spider. The Empress of Darkness.

Honey, sure I know what you mean but it gonna cost you big. It gonna cost you.

How much? he said.

(Her eyes were the shadows behind fences.)

Whatcha really wanna do?

Let’s duck into that parking garage and you can give me a blow.

Sure, honey. But not there. I know a better place.

What’s wrong with that? I see girls go in there all the time.

It’s just not a good place.

So Tyler went with her to the alley. As soon as he’d paid her, he saw her run into the parking garage.

Did she say she knew the Queen?

No, but she implied it.

Did she say she knew the Queen? his boss repeated.

No.

Okay. Do you believe she knows the Queen?

Yes.

Do you believe she knows that you believe it?

Yes.

Can you give me a basis for your belief?

When I said that a pretty girl like her probably got a lot of people to tell her things, she was flattered. She relaxed. She opened up, so to speak—

Are you emotionally compromised?

Tyler sighed. — Not yet, boss.

I think I understand. And then?

She made a reference to the parking garage. She said she never goes there. It’s on the tape. You heard it?

It’s not my policy to comment on what I did or did not hear. Not to you. So let’s keep rolling.

Well, then I said I knew what parking garage she was referring to and I winked at her. Then she laughed.

So it was nonverbal?

Yes.

I follow. Do you believe that she believes the parking garage is where the Queen stays?

Yes.

And do you also believe that the parking garage is where the Queen stays?

Yes.

Okay. So we’re ready to meet the Queen.

Yes.

Do you believe that we’re ready to meet the Queen?

Yeah, I guess so.

Are you sure?

No.

Why aren’t you sure?

Maybe she’s dangerous.

How might she be dangerous?

I don’t know, boss. But I’ll tell you honestly. I didn’t believe in this at first, but now it’s starting to spook me.

What can she do to you?

Probably nothing that I can’t do back to her.

Do you want to go in?

I’ll do it.

Would you rather have more time?

Yes.

Is it because you want more expense money?

Oh, partly. And partly because I don’t know what we’ll find.

Don’t worry about money, Henry, said his boss with surprising gentleness. I promise I’ll take care of you. Will you go in with me tomorrow?

Okay.

Do you want to go in with me or would you rather go in alone? Don’t lie to me.

I’d rather go in alone. I don’t know how good your breaking and entering skills are, Mr. Brady. You already told me that private eye stuff isn’t your field. And it makes me uneasy when a client wants to help me break the law. But I don’t mind if you have a good reason, or if you get off on participating, just like Domino said. In my book, you’re emotionally compromised. But if you want to distract the ticket guy that’d be useful.

I get the hint, said Brady with a grin. It’s okay. I trust you.

Past the boarded-up bakery on Larkin Street Tyler wandered the following forenoon, his hand on his wallet as if life were really good, past the school sign and into the dark garage. — It’s a perfect place, Brady had said. Nobody’s ever here. Nobody but whores. — Tyler walked back to the bakery, got into his car, and drove up the slanting urine-smelling tunnel. On the second floor he backed the vehicle against the wall and sat watching the ramps — the standard orientation of any prudent man getting a blow job. As a matter of fact, Tyler did not like blow jobs. But backing against the wall remained prudent. The cold friend in his armpit did not show. The ramp to the third floor was cut off by a grating which seemed to have been down for a long time. There was light behind it, light sweating and stinking on concrete.

Nobody around, Brady tying up the attendant with some endless complaint… Perfect. He stuck a straw into the little spray can of Wallylube and tooted the lock. Then he thrust a half-diamond pick into the keyway and started lifting pins. They all dropped, one by one; the lock was in good working order, as a Queen’s lock ought to be, especially on her chastity belt. He listened as they fell: a six-pin lock. Now for the tension wrench and the plug spinner… Just enough tension, thank you… He decided against the raking method and went by feel. He was holding the pick in just the same way that Brady held that fat vulgar rollerball pen of his. With the hook pick he raised the driver pins above the shearline, chamber by chamber; the plug rotated three or four degrees, making a shelf on which the top pins must rest so that they couldn’t slam back down like a vindictive whore’s teeth. (No sidebar, fortunately; this was not a General Motors car lock.) Now the bottom pins could move unobstructedly in their channels of vileness.