The Royal Family

by William T. Vollmann

  Well, I’m sellin’ my candy right in the Tenderloin, an’ one night this ho on Taylor Street she tells me about the Queen. Is it the truth or is it a lie? I know I would go to find out, so I go to where I see this big flock of girls standin’ under the streetlight, an’ I look an’ I look an’ I can’t hardly believe it ’cause I see no pimps. An Chocolate here, she says to me, am I happy? I tell her: You wanna hear about me an’ happy? Huh. Last time I was happy I can’t even remember. Ain’t that a shame, she says. An’ I say, that’s a shame. Well, bein’ introduced to Maj, that was the happiest time I can . . . I guess the way I’m built, I just need to feel the power helpin’ me. In Narcotics Anonymous they say trust your higher power. We seen with our own eyes that Maj is Queen. Our Queen is our higher power. An’ she is also just my fun friend. Just a fun-loving friendly person that loves me an’ cares for me. You know what? You very rarely find people that is deep inside their own heart. There’s nobody else.

  Yes, I did have a boyfriend. ’Bout a month ago I got rid of him. He was no good for me, same like all of ’em here. Maybe I dream of some man sometimes, not a nigger but a decent black man. I’m attracted to black men. (Actually, I haven’t dreamt in I don’t know how long, ’cause I haven’t slept in a while.) But why should anybody be attracted back to me? I don’t feel that special. ’Cause now my Queen’s gone. I don’t want ’em to look at me. Even when I be out there on streets in a skimpy dress an’ no underwear just for my business an’ their cars slow down to give me the once over, I wanna cry out Why do they keep lookin’ at me like that? Then I know. It’s not my booty they wanna be lickin’ with their eyes. It’s that they see my Mark burnin’ an’ flamin’ so they can’t miss it even if they want to. That’s why sometimes even women drivers slow down to look me over from my head to my toes. I want to say I’m sorry. Everybody’s just thinkin’ we’re fucked up. Well, they’re right. I can only say I—I—I’m enticed by your acknowledgements.

  | 480 |

  The entire time that Kitty was talking, she kept pulling condoms out from between her breasts, and milking herself unconsciously.

  * * *

  •BOOK XXXIV•

  * * *

  Dan Smooth

  •

  * * *

  . . . and whoever does not fall down and worship shall immediately be cast into a burning fiery furnace.

  DANIEL 3.6

  * * *

  •

  | 481 |

  Past the buzzer, a revelation: Authority, in an ecstasy of sanctimonious prayer, would until the end of time keep busy destroying monsters. Tyler saw phony-wood desks, an industrial tape dispenser; staplers, and staple-removers everywhere. A vending machine’s front comprised a rectangular glass eye. Everywhere he looked, some poster or other explained how sad and tricky this world was: PARENTING IS DIFFICULT—TO HELP YOU COPE, TALK ABOUT IT. No wonder so many parents made mistakes, then.

  That’s a nice poster, said Tyler to the secretary.

  Sir, I’m actually quite busy this morning, the secretary said, adjusting her headset (that microphone should be closer to your mouth, Tyler wanted to explain).

  Why, what a coincidence! cried Tyler heartily. So am I!

  Well, then, said the secretary, how about if you do your job and I’ll just do mine.

  Your job must be difficult, too, said Tyler, pointing to the poster.

  Excuse me? the woman said.

  Can I help you cope, baby? You feel like crying on my shoulder?

  My, aren’t we hostile today, the secretary said. I hope you get busted big time.

  On her desk, a buzzer rang.

  All right, Mr. Tyler, she said. You can go in now.

  With or without Vaseline? Tyler wondered aloud.

  You’re disgusting, said the secretary. If you have any kids I hope we take them away forever.

  No sweat, said Tyler. You and I can always make some more. I know how to do it. I’m an abuser from way back.

  In the next room, tables and chairs were set up as if for a family conference. There were two baby seats. A pair of handcuffs hung from a pipe. There was a big white plastic crate of toys: trucks, a plastic bowling ball, miscellaneous government-issue snuggly things with flame-retardent stickers. Here, perhaps, the uncomprehending children were peeled away from their abusive parents.

  Today the FBI was comprised of a man and a woman in business suits. They were very charming. Tyler could see that they knew how to deal with the public.

  Dan Smooth sat facing them across the table, his fingers open like those of a small child playing patty-cake.

  Tyler said: Are you okay, Dan?

  I’ve had better days, but these FBI turds aren’t going to break me. I appreciate your coming by, Henry, I really do. The reason I’m late, well, I’m not actually late . . .

  So what’s going on? said Tyler to the FBI agents.

  Would you like some coffee, Mr. Tyler? the woman said.

  No thanks. What kind of trouble is Dan in?

  Three guesses, laughed Smooth greyly.

  Just as when during a special session with Domino the living drops fall slowly from the candle, making a sizzling noise when they hit, then in warm silence spreading into the man’s flesh, the warmth becoming painful and tender, so the various burning stimuli which Tyler had already encountered in this place began to make his stomach ache. The ambiance of the situation, which many people would have called “serious,” preoccupied him more than he would have liked. Disposed, as always, to meet disrespect with defiance, he nonetheless decided that for the sake of expediency (that is, of a happy ending), he would accept some degree of degradation, like the Queen’s girls, who gave head to unwashed men and were always telling each other to be careful. This is not to say that he regretted his rudeness to the secretary, especially since her words had been uncalled for; in this deeper sanctum of officialdom, however, rank domination would probably have to be swallowed, in order to avoid a force-feeding.

  Well, strictly speaking, Mr. Tyler, you’re not really a part of the actual investigation process, the FBI woman said.

  Imagine that, said Tyler. Nice blouse you have on.

  In other words, Mr. Tyler, we’re going to need some time alone with Mr. Smooth, for his own protection and ours.

  Dan, you want me to stay or go?

  Do what they want, his friend said dully. I’ve been through this so many times before. They always get their way . . .

  Dan, are you okay?

  You’re going to have to leave now, Mr. Tyler, the woman said. You’re welcome to take a seat in our waiting room if you’d like.

  Count me in, said Tyler. That sure is the prettiest little waiting room I ever did see.

  And, Mr. Tyler, I’d appreciate it if you let Sheila work. You seem to have made her upset.

  Are you going to shoot me? said Tyler. I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country.

  The FBI stood waiting for him to go, so he said: Dan, if you need me, call me.

  The FBI man laughed and said: If you hear any screaming, come running in.

  Tyler went back to the room of posters, winked at the tense, rigid secretary, and sat down as close to the door as he could. The secretary didn’t take her eyes off him. The FBI woman closed the door. Tyler watched the minute hand on the clock, smacking his lips as loudly and vulgarly as he could to irritate the secretary. He farted. —Terribly sorry, he said to the secretary. It’s a disease that all of us child molesters have. —The minute hand on the clock went round and round.

  After a long time, the FBI man came out and said to Tyler confidentially while sharpening a pencil: This guy’s got nothing to worry about. There’s nothing to implicate him, not even remotely. He’s wasted his money on a lawyer. He’s not the suspect.

  Well, that’ll make him happy to hear, Tyler replied.

  The FBI man, who was old and somehow very affable-looking, went back into the room with the toys and handcuffs, but this time failed to close the door
all the way. Tyler could hear much better now.

  Well, basically what we’re trying to determine is what you think Henry Tyler was trying to do with these color photographs, said the FBI woman so sweetly.

  Oh, so now you’re investigating him, too? came Smooth’s voice.

  The affable FBI man said: He’s got a lot of stuff that shows girls dancing and stuff. We’re not concerned with that. But some of the stuff is very graphic: Nudes, genitals and stuff like that. And we generally find that photographers take pictures of what they like to look at.

  In all the pictures—about sixty of them—the light was shining in the crotch, and it’s very exposed, the FBI woman said.

  Do you know this young girl? the FBI man said.

  That’s Sapphire, said Smooth. She’s a retarded prostitute.

  Is she a minor?

  If she were, that would be a felony section 311.3, now, wouldn’t it? replied Smooth with a shadow of his accustomed superiority. You see, I know California law as well as Numbers and Deuteronomy. But guess what? She’s twenty-something—hee, hee! And her vagina’s actually kind of—

  So you’re saying that she isn’t a minor.

  Can’t you tell from the flesh tones? It’s actually somewhat interesting if you look at that enlarged area there . . .

  And what about this copper device?

  I think it hides orgasms easier, and meets changes better, Dan Smooth whispered.

  Now this Queen, this Africa female, I understand that she compelled Sapphire to engage in nonconsensual sex acts with—

  You’re being tautological, you see. Compelled and nonconsensual refer to the same concept.

  We’re not in grammar school anymore, Mr. Smooth. Although I do understand you have a penchant for grammar schools. Now, this Africa—or should I call her the Queen?

  And the Queen honored and nourished us with her love, Smooth muttered.

  So it went. They were very reasonable, and explained to Smooth their personal interest.

  The nice old guy came out and permitted Tyler to rethink things a little, to warn him that when Dan Smooth fell, Tyler should be careful that he didn’t drag him down, too.

  So you’re investigating me too, huh? said Tyler.

  Not at this time, Henry, the FBI man said. You really have nothing to worry about. These photographs we’re referring to were actually confiscated from Mr. Smooth’s residence on Q Street in Sacramento. I understand you were a frequent visitor?

  Yeah, I know where the toilet is, said Tyler.

  Well, we don’t want to upset Mr. Smooth all at once, so for politeness’s sake we’re just asking him about the photographs as if they were yours. There’s a lot of felony count stuff here. Full frontal crotch shots of young children. I’m talking underage females, and some underage males. It’s really quite distressing, Henry.

  Yeah, I’ll say, said Tyler. You think all those kids are virgins? Are there any wet split beaver shots of the young girls where you can get a good look at the maidenhead? I think that would be important evidence.

  The FBI man shot him a nauseated look and walked away.

  Meanwhile, in the other room, behind the half closed door, Tyler could hear the FBI woman saying to Dan Smooth very nicely: Well, from examining the files in your computer, it seems to me that you and Tyler were pretty, well, intertwined. I mean he wrote your resume.

  Henry has always been a big help, said Smooth hoarsely.

  Tweed men entered from the street, signing IN and OUT on the bulletin board.

  Tyler heard the woman clear her throat, and then she said: And your activities with the fifty-two children on this list, you deny that you had carnal—

  Listen, came Smooth’s voice, heartbreakingly honest in its anger, so unlike its usual patronizing oiliness. —You insult me.

  We’re all adults in this room, Mr. Smooth, unlike the kids on this list. They’ll never get over what was done to them. But you’re old enough to stay calm and cooperate, don’t you think?

  I—

  Is there anyone at all in law enforcement who can vouch for you about this?

  Third Precinct. They know me there.

  I bet they do, the FBI woman sneered. Don’t you ever have nightmares about the faces of those poor, poor kids?

  No matter what you think, I don’t hurt anybody and I never have. You should be aware that I cracked the Kaylin Kohler case . . .

  Mr. Smooth, the information we have suggests classic sexual exploitation on a multiple level, and, besides, you’re already a registered sex offender.

  Don’t you realize that anybody who’s a registered sex offender already bears the Mark of Cain? You can’t go after us or you’ll be punished sevenfold. Aren’t you ashamed, to go against Jehovah?

  Mr. Smooth, we’re not really interested in your religious views. What we’re interested in is whether you engaged in repeated acts of sexual conduct with children under the age of eighteen and with children under the age of fourteen.

  I want to tell you something. You can’t always say I’ve been a useful citizen. But I’m a good excuse to people who need to hurt themselves, and to witch-burners like you who—

  Did you go meet with this young girl Sapphire in April? the FBI woman was saying, as Tyler sat there and the FBI man gazed lovingly into Tyler’s eyes

  I don’t know, Smooth said.

  Did your Queen procure underage minors for illicit sexual activity?

  I don’t know.

  Well, why don’t you try to remember, Mr. Smooth, the woman said. You really ought to try to cooperate with the investigation.

  Why?

  Because we have you dead to rights on penal code section 261.5, that’s unlawful sexual intercourse with persons under eighteen; and section 269, which is aggravated sexual assault of these children; and section 288, lewd and lascivious acts with minors including many, many counts of oral copulation and sodomy; and section 288.5, continuous sexual abuse of children; and section 289, penetration of genital or anal openings by foreign objects.

  If you have me dead to rights, why don’t you arrest me?

  The investigation is continuing, Mr. Smooth.

  Call me Uncle Dan. Call me Daddy. Call me—

  How about if I just call you scum?

  You know, ma’am, I’m always joshing my friend Henry in the waiting room about his envious ears. But you have envious eyes. I saw how your face lit up when you looked at those crotch shots. I saw how you got so happy right then, because you wanted to think the worst of me and now you could. You can’t do without me—

  Excuse me just a minute, Henry, the FBI man said, entering the waiting room, with the door gaping behind him. Over his shoulder he said: Mr. Smooth, when you walk out the door today, if we never see you again and you never see us again, you’ll be a happy man. Just tell us what these felony count child pornography photographs were doing in your house on Q Street.

  I don’t know, Smooth said.

  Did Henry Tyler take those pictures?

  I don’t know.

  Did Queen Africa take those pictures?

  I don’t know.

  The FBI man strolled back into the interrogation room, brought his face close to Smooth’s, and said: Let’s refresh our memory.

  About what?

  Well, what about this big grey box of Henry Tyler’s? See, all I’m saying is, tell the truth and be honest with us, and it’ll work out. Our only job is to seek the truth.

  I don’t know.

  You’re being consistently evasive to protect somebody’s interest.

  Because I’ve sworn to protect my Queen.

  And where is she?

  I don’t know.

  And what does she have to do with the big grey box?

  I don’t know.

  As long as everyone’s being so vague, we have to make certain assumptions. So where does Tyler do his color work?

  Come on, Dan, the FBI woman interjected, and her laugh was as loud and inhuman as a trolleycar bell, I think you
know. You’ve known him for years. He wrote your letters for you. You didn’t write that garbage.

  Smooth was silent.

  As busy as a hen in a blender, said the FBI woman brightly. Tyler wrote that, Dan. As busy as a chicken in a blender.

  The affable FBI man came out and said to Tyler: Any child that’s been up to Dan Smooth’s house on Q Street is in danger of having been molested. Henry, I would never lose that thought.