The Royal Family

| 360 |

Heh, heh, heh! Justin got hit by a car!

And the red ambulance light pulsed right through the window of Jonell’s Bar, where a man was saying: I’ll sell it to you for twenny dollars. (Around the corner, Chocolate didn’t hear. She was busy singing to the passing cars: This is your knot, this is my slot, do it on the dot, cash!)

Lookit Justin there! Fool got hit by a car!

Heh, heh, heh!

Your cab’s here, said the old barmaid to a drunk.

I didn’t call no cab.

Oh, yes you did.

I’m not leavin’.

Oh, get out! — The barmaid tried to snatch his beer away, but he seized it and brandished it threateningly over her face.

Heh, heh, heh!

You see that wrestling thing on TV? laughed the twenty-dollar man. Now these two here, they’re gonna wrestle. Bets, anyone? I bet twenny dollars on Clarice!

Heh, heh, heh! Ran right over Justin’s leg!

Justin? Why, sure enough, it really is Justin. I always hated that goddamned pimp.

Get out! Get out! screamed the barmaid.

You need a hand, Clarice?

Get him out!

A big man came and began to gently push the drunk between the shoulderblades. The drunk wheeled round cursing and punching.

Whoah, said the big man. I was just trying to give you a hand. Asshole! Sonofabitch! Oh, well.

He’s just drunk, the twenty-dollar man soothed him.

Yeah, I knew that, said the big man.

The drunk staggered outside and waved his taxi away imperiously. The taxi driver grimaced, waiting for the one whom he was sure would be the real fare, the willing, generous customer of whom we all dream. Then the drunk caught sight of the cherry-colored ambulance lights. He shambled over to his fellow spectators and began to enjoy the ambulance’s screams. But somebody cut the siren, and he swore, disappointed.

Oh, I’m all right, said the tall man, sitting regally in the back of the ambulance. Blood ran down his ankles. White men in white coats attended him most obsequiously, and the crowd gazed up at him through the open door. He was their entertainment.

Who’s that nigger? said the drunk.

Watch your mouth, a black man warned him. If you wasn’t such a lush I’d beat your whitebread ass.

Perhaps that sallow drunk should have taken the hint. But he needed to feel confident in his life. It was only when he drank that he felt he could be anything. He felt this precisely because his perceptions had grown so constricted that he could no longer be cognizant of his limitations, like those old people who when sight, hearing and memory slip away make unflattering remarks in loud voices about others who are still present but out of their dwindling sensory range. How amazed they’d be, if they understood that the nasty man who’d long since vanished from their apprehension like last Thursday’s television show had just now heard them denounce his nastiness! For they’d meant no harm! Backstab gossip doesn’t harm anybody, does it? It’s only steam-letting, social sport, wit, liveliness, self-comfort like complaining over an arthritic wrist.

The tall man, King for a day, extended his right arm to the crowd in a Roman salute. — How about if you just lie down right back here? a paramedic murmured, but the tall man angrily shrugged off his touch.

I know who he is! the drunk suddenly shouted, proud of his immense knowledge. He’s a boxer! He’s what’s-his-name! He fought Mike Tyson! But did he win?

The crowd started to snicker, and the drunk, pleased with the attention, went on: If they were both at their peak, then Tyson would win. But Tyson’s all fucked up. He’s dead and gone.

I’m all right, said Justin.

Oh, he thinks he’s all right, sneered the drunk. If he’s all right, then what’s with the men in the fucking white coats?

I’m all right, Justin repeated happily.

You think we were talking about you? shouted the drunk. We were talking about Mike Tyson. Who gives a rat’s ass about you? What kind of representative of the black people are you?

Blame it on the fucking black, man. Just blame everything, said the man who’d threatened to kick the drunk’s ass. He blindsided the drunk with an imensely powerful punch which sent the drunk whirling down like Lucifer into hell. His head struck the pavement with a cracking noise. Then he lay still.

You got room for one more? called a man to the ambulance crew, and the crowd laughed.

The black man kicked the drunk’s head again and again, shouting: You fucking white nigger!

Justin, doped up and cracked up, had witnessed none of this. He was sure that all the commotion had been applause. He could not remember when he had been so joyful. Last week when Maj had gone off on Domino and then with her face self-carved into an unfriendly mask commanded him to step across the street so that she could mutter more of her private things with that Henry Tyler, he’d felt insulted, almost cursed, and his rage at her, which was really jealousy, seeped upward into his chest, making him dread himself even through the scratched and smeary lenses of his fatalism, and that jealousy was actually grief because this Queen whom he’d so faithfully served treasured up no more love for him. He’d wanted to change and leave nothing of himself behind, not even his wrinkled skin. And now his glory grew as multi-hued as the bright clothes which hung at sidewalk sales on Mission Street; and his dignity ascended; words and glances licked him like incense-smoke, and he became theatrical to please the world. No goddamned medic was going to stop him. He had never experienced any inability to understand why Domino set fires, why Strawberry robbed him and cheated on him and then sneered the fact in his ear with her ugly trashy goadings until he had to break her jaw; every wild beast roared sometimes, and now it was his turn, especially because roaring temporarily expelled the immense physical pain of his two broken legs as well as the spiritual pain of betrayal by the Queen, pain which clung to him like ice cold iron whose bitterness could be dismissed only at the cost of torn skin. And now, piquant sauce for his dish of plenty, Strawberry herself came running up Jones Street, screaming: Justin, Justin, oh, my God, Justin! She leaped into the back of the ambulance, whose pebblechromed bumper dazzled her with its silver perfection, asked the paramedics if he was all right, held his hand. — I’ll buy you a soda at the hospital, she whispered tearfully.

Justin felt grand.

But then they were hauling the unconscious drunk into a stretcher beside him, at which he became indignant and cried: This is my ambulance!

The crowd laughed: Heh, heh, heh!

| 361 |

Tyler was in the Uptown Bar on that same rainy Friday night when a wordless girl laid a white rose on his table and swung out through the doorway, gone now in the yellow dripping light, so after a long time he finished his beer and walked the block to Sixteenth where another girl stood; as wordlessly as the first, he offered her the flower, and she said in tones of almost scalding ferocity: Get away from me, bitch! — He said: I’m not a bitch and neither are you. — Fuck you, said the girl. Stop following me. — I’m not following you. I’m walking back to the Uptown, which means you’re following me. — You fuckin’ longhair! Who do you think I am? — I think you’re beautiful, darling. — Fuck you, the girl said. — His toes were wet in his shoes.

Feeling depressed and humiliated, and defiantly revelling in these sensations because they signified the Mark by which he now knew himself, he drove slowly up Van Ness, engaged his clicking right turn signal, then swung into the Tenderloin’s darkness where on the groundlevel storeys of squat brickwork skyscrapers the delis, corner markets, bars and pornographic bookstores smoldered in waves of unsettled light, and he glimpsed Strawberry running between cars, bent forward with her arms folded at her breasts; she had just heard about the tall man’s accident, about which Tyler did not yet know, and then he saw a parking spot in front of the glaring portico tricked out with plastic letters spelling VIDEO and 3 FILMS 3 HOURS XXX at which moment Domino’s ex-pimp threw a rock against his right headlight and ran away crazily screeching and redeyed, but Tyler was wearing his gun that night, so he only grimaced nervously and got out of the car, checking that all four doors were safely locked before he slouched among the slouching silhouettes on the littered, greasy, grimy sidewalk of Turk Street whose main luminescence came, it seemed, from the dark-parka’d pimps’ white trousers and the whitish-yellow line in the middle of the street and then the sad streetlight spewing downs showers of already infected photons, so he didn’t look back and he didn’t look into anyone’s face on his entire way to the Wonderbar, where the man on the next barstool said to him: Hey.

Hey what? said Tyler.

Bet you can’t tell me what snowmen got that snowwomen don’t got.

Tyler thought for a moment. — Snowballs, he said, slightly pleased with himself.

Shit, you’re a comedian! My hat’s off to you! But you’ll never get this one: What makes a snowman smile?

I give up, said Tyler.

When them snowblowers come round! Hoo! Heh-heh-heh-heh…

Tyler laughed and shook his head.

You’re pathetic, said Domino, who’d materialized behind him. You hang around in sleazy bars and think that stupid misoyginistic jokes about snowmen are funny. You need to get a life.

You and me both, said Tyler. Speaking of sleazy bars, what’s it like looking out through the sleazy bars of your prison cell?

Asshole! shouted the blonde, and Tyler chuckled and narrowed the eyes in his grey, grey face…

| 362 |

He felt weak with dread when he considered his future, so he did not consider it. What might and probably would happen imminently seeped into the present, poisoning it, but he denied the poison. His relationship with the Queen, as his connection to John and to Irene had been, was doomed. But hadn’t John and Irene’s marriage been literally doomed? Where was the sense of everything? And suddenly he felt such anguish that ideas vanished and to save himself he thrust his tongue up the Queen’s anus. But that didn’t save him, because now he believed; he had faith — not merely in her herself; he’d long since gained, lost and regained that; but also in her onrushing end. She would go away, like one of the tired old secretaries high-clicking down the granite steps of the Hall of Justice on Friday night, gone like the man in the skullcap who drank and drank until the eyes rolled back inside his head. And in terror Tyler held his Queen tightly enough to bruise her ribs, and he cried: What am I going to do?

Ah, said the Queen. You mean afterward, don’t you, baby?

Yeah.

They were inside a shed on Bryant Street whose outside read AUTO GLASS. Everybody else was out working that night, except for Sapphire, who made many strange faces each as white as the divider lines on pavement, her mincing movements striving to please the world, her long hair combed back by her Queen, plaited into a horse’s tail. Whenever Tyler gazed at her, he believed her to be expressing something terribly important which happened to be in an alien language. Buddha says that greed, anger and ignorance cause all human suffering. Sapphire possessed neither greed nor anger. As for her ignorance, that was either almost absolute or else entirely nonexistent. Perhaps she was Buddha. And upon Canaanites, as upon all others, Buddha has compassion. Was this what the retarded girl was expressing when, appearing between him and the Queen with the silent rapidity of one of those chrysanthemum spirits in snow-blue robes who rise from the central trapdoor of a Kabuki stage, she smiled on him, simultaneously shedding tears?

Allrightie, now, Sapphie, said the Queen. You’re a good girl. You’re our good girl. Now go over there an’ lie down. You got to dream now. You got to dream the dreams like I told you.

But Tyler could not cease gripping the Queen’s knees as he groaned over and over: What am I gonna do?

Well, I guess you just gonna have to deal, she replied a little drily.

Africa?

What? What is it now, child?

Can I go with you?

Where?

Wherever they’re going to put you, he stammered.

No.

You don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry if I…

C’mere, baby. You not ready for this. You got some travelling ahead of you. Lots and lots. You really wanna know?

I guess not, he sobbed. Not yet—

| 363 |

Hi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-! the ladies screamed at his mother when he opened the door.

Well, well, said Mrs. Tyler. What a surprise. How dear of you all.

And John’s even put birthday flowers on your wheelchair, said Mrs. Simms. How darling.

I’m Henry, not John, said Tyler.

Oh, I’m sorry, Henry. Where can we put our coats?

I’ll take them.

Where’s John?

He’ll be here directly, said Tyler. He wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a water glass full of whiskey, thinking that no matter what he did he would be considered corrupted and attainted like a homeless man or an unwashed prostitute and he therefore longed with all his soul to be away from here forever and in the arms of the Queen for as long as she lasted. His fantasies were as green and white as the bok choy for sale right around the corner from City Lights.

Henry? came his mother’s weak voice. Where’s Henry?

Tyler sipped at his drink.

Somebody go see where Henry is.

Scowling, Tyler upended his part-drunk glass into the sink. Then he took the birthday cake out of the refrigerator. It was one-thirty. John had promised to arrive promptly at two, so Tyler needed to be out of the house by then.

Henry?

Oh, hello, Mrs. Myers. I’m just lighting the candles for Mom. Would you mind getting everybody ready to sing “Happy Birthday”?

You’re such a good son, Henry. You and John both. John especially. It seems as if I’m always seeing John running up here with something for your mother…

I wish I could just help her a little more, Tyler whispered.

| 364 |

Why, June, you look ravishing tonight, said Mrs. Myers.

Thank you, my dear, Mrs. Tyler said.

She looks awful, said Mrs. Myers out of the side of her mouth.

Why, what’s wrong? said Tyler.

Can’t you see? Just look at her face!

On the television, Brady was saying to an interviewer: In every province of our Invisible Empire there’s one Great Titan and seven Furies, and if you don’t even know that much…

Where’s Mrs. King today? said Tyler.

You mean you didn’t hear? said Mrs. Myers delightedly.

I just swear by that Miramar cream, Mrs. Simms was saying. It’s the newest thing. When you put it on your face, you can feel it burn. I guess it actually dissolves that top layer of skin.

No, I didn’t, said Tyler.

You didn’t what, dear?

I didn’t hear how Mrs. King met her doom.

Well, Henry, she—

It was a double mastectomy, Henry, so could you please be more sensitive?

I guess I could try.

Getting back to that Miramar cream…

So it’s good for wrinkles? inquired Mrs. Myers with intense interest.

It’s the best. It’s an anti-ageing cream, really. It actually dissolves all your wrinkles.

She should talk! whispered Mrs. Myers. Just look at the old bag!

Sighing, Tyler stepped in between them. — How much does it cost, Mrs. Simms?

Well, it’s three hundred dollars for two months’ worth. It’s three bottles, one red, one silver and one black.

And you have to use them all? Mrs. Myers put in. I really don’t see why you should have to use them all.

First you’re supposed to apply the black. If you don’t, there’s no guarantee. That one burns the most. Then you scrub, rinse and dollop on the silver. You really have to use a lot of silver. I always run out of that one first. Then you wait one minute and go for the red. You know how I remember all that? Because black, silver and red were my high school football team’s colors.

Well, isn’t that an interesting coincidence? sighed Mrs. Tyler.

Yes it is. It truly is. And the supply lasts me about two months. As I said, it’s three hundred dollars. But that’s only if you have a coupon…

Almost beside himself with boredom, anxiety and distress, Tyler took Mrs. Myers back into the kitchen and seized her hand.

You creature! laughed Mrs. Myers roughly. You just like the holding hands!

And the kissing.

And the rubbing.

And everything after that, he sunnily replied, thinking: Why, Stella Myers, you don’t know what to do with your life, either. (What do I want to do with the rest of my life? Get to a point where I can stop asking that question. But I actually know. I want to be with my Queen.)

You creature, she laughed. I already called you a creature. Stop that!

From the living room, Mrs. Simms peered in at them.

Tyler smiled blandly.

Stop putting your hand on women’s butts! Mrs. Myers said loudly.

Where’s Henry? called Mrs. Tyler.

Mrs. Simms glared at Tyler.

I know I shouldn’t, said Tyler thoughtfully, but it just feels so good.

Suddenly, Mrs. Myers laughed and squeezed his hand.

| 365 |

Henry, his mother whispered as he was leaving, it would be such a waste to me if you just holed up and—

That’s nice of you to say, Mom.

How’s business?

Oh, not so good. But I—

There’s just so much more to you than that.

Than what? I’ve got to go, Mom. Say hello to John for me…

| 366 |

What size is she? said the saleslady.

Eighty-five slash S, said Tyler, believing the Queen to be the same size as Irene.

That’s not an American size. That’s a foreign size. Oh, okay. I know. And would you like a panty with that?

Oh, I suppose.

With the garter? I recommend the garter.

That’s extra, I take it.

Yes it is, sir.

You know what a Marxist would say about that?

Excuse me, sir?

He’d say, that’s no accident.

Sir, do you want the garter or don’t you?

She’s just like Domino, he told himself. Finally he nodded, anxious that he might not have enough cash.

And you’ll want a robe with that, too, won’t you?

No, I don’t believe I do.

She might be disappointed, the woman insinuated in a faraway childlike voice. It’s really not much of a gift, what’s in this cute little bag so far.

Yeah, he said, paying in five dollar bills. I’m so sorry you’re disappointed.

| 367 |

A lady from a personnel office called and wanted him to screen somebody before she fired him. She was hoping to find evidence of illegal drug use. She wanted Tyler to obtain his medical record.

And we need a hard copy for verification purposes, the lady said.

Tyler rubbed his eyes, gazing out at the fog, cleared his throat, and said: My assumption would be, if I’m looking up medical information, I’m picking it up off insurance company databases. So I won’t be able to get original hard copy, ma’am. But I can print out whatever I catch, if that makes you feel better.

It just has to be hard copy. That’s all. That’s our policy.

Sure. Do you have his social?

His what?

His social disease, ma’am.

Excuse me?

His social security number.

I thought you could obtain all that information, the lady said.

Oh, I can, but I’m trying to save you money. It’ll be one less computer search for you, you see.

Well, isn’t it illegal for me to give out a social security number?

Ma’am, it’s just as illegal for me to snoop in somebody’s medical records. And it’s never a good idea to talk about illegal things on the telephone, get it? Are you tape recording this call?

That’s irrelevant.

Oh, it is, huh? I get it.

Mr. Tyler, I’m not sure I like the direction this conversation is taking.

Aren’t you ashamed? he said. Don’t you feel just the littlest bit hypocritical?

I beg your pardon! the lady said coldly.

You want me to do your dirty work and incur the risk and you won’t even tell me whether you tape record your phone calls. You’re like some john in the Tenderloin wanting to fuck a desperate whore up her bleeding ass and not even use a rubber…

I was referred to you, Mr. Tyler. I can see now that the referral was a mistake. Goodbye.

We aim to please, he said, but she’d already hung up.

| 368 |

Danny Smooth got a collect call from Strawberry, said the Queen. Domino, Henry, go an’ get Justin from the hospital They won’t let him out unless he gets a ride home. Strawberry she stayin’ down there with him an’ she wanna come home now, too…

Aw, come on, Maj, whined the blonde. Tomorrow’s my thirty-second birthday and I was already celebrating. That’s not a party kind of thing to do.

Justin he ain’t been havin’ no party either, girl, said the Queen sharply. Now go get him.

Maj, I—

Oh, quit pissin’ in my ear and tellin’ me it’s rainin’, said the Queen.

And so they drove to San Francisco General Hospital where the tall man shared a room with an O.G.* who’d been shot in the stomach. The O.G. was saying: So anytime you wanna split on that bitch an’ come join my nation, I’ll bring you right in, know what I’m sayin’?

Hey, I appreciate that, the tall man said.

I mean, what you got right now? You got this scuzzy white bitch over there, an’ I bet you don’t even got no car. Don’t you want a real lady an’ a car? Hey, listen up, Justin. Send the white bitch outside. Send her out. Go on, bitch, get the fuck out of this black man’s room.

Outside, Strawberry, said the tall man

Justin, I—

I said outside, you stinkin’ bitch.

That’s right, Justin, that’s right. You tell ’em! Now get on them crutches an’ come over here. Yeah. That’s right. Bend over my bed. And kinda pull the curtain around us so… Yeah. Now listen, I’m not playin’ you when I say this. You wanna ex that bitch who been keepin’ you down?

The tall man swallowed hard. — No, he said.

I’m not talkin’ about that silly piece of white trash. She’s not oppressin’ you; she’s just encumberin’ you. I know you can bump her off. I wouldn’t never insult you, Justin, by offerin’ my help there. No, I’m talkin’ about that Queen bitch. I don’t mind a little head to head with that bitch.

No, the tall man said.

I don’t approve of you, but you got a lot of guts. I respect you. A little drive-by, roll-by, tooty-shooty, hear what I’m sayin’? A black man, a brother, shouldn’t never be the slave of no bitch.

Justin said: Awright, my brother, good to talk to you, okay?

Hey, baby, be cool, okay? croaked the older man.

Justin Soames, your ride is here, said the nurse.

The tall man hobbled downstairs, ignoring Strawberry, who hurried after him.

You holding on, Justin? Tyler said. Beside him, Domino picked at her fingernails.

Uh huh, said the tall man. I don’t feel nothin’.

Hey, Dom, hey, Henry, said Strawberry a little too eagerly. We sure appreciate this…

Well, aren’t you just the prettiest berry in the whole damned patch, said Tyler with a cornball smile.

Cut it out! giggled Strawberry. Stop touchin’ me, homes!

Justin turned around, scratching his bearded lips, and said: If my old lady was to talk to me like that, I’d slap the shit out of her. I’m talkin’ to you.

Oh, quit bossing her around, said Domino.

Who the fuck you think you are? and the tall man raised one crutch as if to strike her, too. She slunk back.

What a lovely, lovely reunion, chuckled Tyler, narrowing his eyes. Strawberry, don’t you think they ought to get married?

Strawberry was silent.

Well. Guess I’m the one who has to carry on all the conversation around here. Justin, you got any stuff?

Had me some pretty good morphine.

Morphine’s the best, laughed Domino nervously, still watching the tall man’s crutch. Tyler was immensely saddened to see her fear. It was as if she, too, now acknowledged that the Queen’s world must soon end, at which time her erstwhile clan of brothers and sisters would again scatter to the darkness, becoming predators who preyed upon each other. — And you know what else? she babbled on. That fuckin’ lithium. What the fuck do they use it for? For fuckin’ depression or schizophrenia or what the fuck. It’s better than fuck. And — and — and…

What’s she on? sneered the tall man. Meth? Shit, I didn’t know she could even score a dime bag of goddamn boogie weed without me. Where’s that faggoty car at?

Shaking his head, Tyler drove them back among the Tenderloin’s striped and tanned and glowing building-rectangles all stacked together like playing cards where on all sides was proclaimed the gospel of HOTELS — MOVIES — XXX except where it said LIQUORS or THUNDER — LIQUOR — BEER — WINE — ATM CARD, and the tall man smiled sallowly, warmed by vagrant beams of barroom light exuded from rows of Old Crow bourbon bottles behind ever so many counters, liquid glowing as yellowly as the slanted stacks of oranges and lemons in the produce markets of Mission Street, and through his rearview mirror Tyler saw the tall man begin to lick his lips.

Back in Canaan again, yessir, Tyler said. Back in the land of Cain.

Domino, wearied almost to death of Tyler, whom she watched steadily driving with his grey hands almost rosy thanks to reflected light while his windshield wipers fended off the world, and in equal parts wearied of Strawberry and the tall man because she thought she knew them so well as to preclude any future novelty or even change, tried to imagine herself somewhere else, as she usually did when, for instance, she was naked and on top of or beneath some strange man. At those times she never pretended that she was with anybody special or kind; all that she wanted was to curl safe in some recess which she could no longer even visualize, maybe one of those mellow bars with black leather seats where the patrons smoke cigars and drink single malt Scotch out of glasses not much larger than the ampoules of precious drugs, someplace where the tall man wouldn’t threaten her and Tyler couldn’t play his stupid games and Strawberry… Her brothers and sisters, once close enough for her to touch, were rising up into distant and malignant pillars of night.

Apprised of almost all the intimate characteristics of Strawberry which it is possible for one person to learn about another, Domino was sure that she knew her in her unapproachable soul. She knew what Strawberry’s breath smelled like during her period, and she knew every dimple of her flabby buttocks. She knew the slow, high, Japanese sounding moans which Strawberry uttered whenever she was making love with the tall man, whose own cries were deep metallic monotones like windgusts jetting low between the still skyscrapers of the financial district at dawn. She also knew the moans which Strawberry made when she was with other men, her trick moans, Domino called them, which sounded equally plausible and very well might have been equally pleasurable for Strawberry but which were emitted in a lower key, almost approaching the tall man’s cries. Another of Strawberry’s peculiarities was that her moans never ever coincided with those of whatever man was inside her, but alternated with them like echoes, as if Strawberry were faking them or needed to go her own way or simply experienced joy between instead of during thrusts. Domino had watchdogged Strawberry when customers were iffy; she’d lived with her, double- and triple-dating with her, and so when it came to Strawberry the blonde considered herself a woman of experience. And, like most experiences, this one nauseated her. She longed to forget everything she knew about Strawberry. She hated the tall man and Tyler even when she needed and even loved them. Like the crazy whore, who took shelter in her craziness, and the false Irene, who hid in self-stupefaction, Domino felt embarrassed and revolted by the world around her. Longing to be anywhere but here, she licked her lips and thought about heroin, crack, Sapphire’s clitoris…

Hey, I’m speakin’ to you, Dom, you skanky white bitch. I said, what the fuck you on?

One time on lithium I got so shitfaced, Domino continued rapidly, glaring at the tall man out of the corner of her eye, and you know I was around all you fucked up people doing what you fucked up people normally do, so I should have been sad. But I couldn’t get this shiteating grin off my face. I kept saying, hey, I’m sorry, I know I should be sad but I’m happier than shit.

So what’s the plan, now, Justin? Tyler interrupted.

Whatever it takes.

Where do you want me to drop you?

Where the fuck you think?

Strawberry, Domino, you want to work or you want to hang with the Queen?

Strawberry cleared her throat and said: I, uh—

Stay the fuck out of my business! the tall man screamed, rubbing his leg.

I get it, Tyler said sarcastically.

The tall man continued not to look at him, and Tyler, suddenly furious, concluded that it must be true what Domino was always sneering into his ear — namely, that the tall man had no love for him whatsoever and therefore used him and mocked him as the cruelest of johns mock their whores. Months ago, Tyler had thought he knew how to deal with him. The Queen was a very big bitch, the tall man used to self-importantly whisper. This was the only sort of lying in which Tyler had ever caught him, this weak struggling to be glamorous. He could have told Tyler that he was a bigshot himself, or even that he was friends with bigshots, but he didn’t set his sights so high. His boss, the Queen, whom he loved and perhaps feared, was glorious enough. But he had never really gotten along with any members of the royal family except for Strawberry, off and on, and of course Maj herself who was now so frequently to be seen walking down the street with her arm tightly about Tyler’s waist and his arm around her shoulder with his fingers gripping her upper arm and her dark face turned toward him as he clung to her, watching the street with his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. To the tall man, Tyler looked shy, maybe even ashamed. He seemed to be gazing away from her.

Tyler said: Justin, I have a question.

What?

Why is it that when I try to be polite and respect you and do you favors like picking you up at the goddamned hospital and ask about how you’re feeling and what your plans are, you don’t even say what’s up? Are you that selfish? Are you that far gone?

He’s sick, Henry! whispered Strawberry nervously. By the way, I found this tape player in the women’s bathroom. I’m gonna give it to the Queen…

Ignoring her, the tall man leaned forward and said in tones both earnest and bland, and maybe contemptuous also: You think you can see the agony of the black man?

What are you talking about?

How come you never invite me over? You been in all the Queen’s tunnels and you never took me anywhere.

Well, I didn’t know that you—

You got a place?

Sure, Justin. Sure I do.

Probably some million dollar white man place.

Oh, give me a break, said Tyler narrowing his eyes.

A concrete-hued fog protected the Tenderloin from unnecessary light, like some grey rock beneath which bugs and worms could safely crawl, to say nothing of the Tenderloin’s wheelchair kings who rolled beneath those elegant old white skyscrapers, yes, white against a silver-white sky, and the chin-up street kings who stalked the filthy sidewalks, watching the men in crutches approach to do them reverence, and meanwhile the cars snored in between it all, ignored by everyone unless their windows were down for business. The silhouette of a garage mechanic in coveralls bent over a truck hood on Olive Street, and a black girl in a white wool cap and a white quilted jacket approached him. Then they were gone, and so was the rain forest mural on the Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theater. If Tyler didn’t put on the brake soon, they’d be all the way to Frenchy’s adult bookstore.

I said, you think you can see the agony of the black man? Hell, no. Not even you. I like you, Henry. You my friend. You don’t talk down to me. But you can’t never understand—

Don’t I bear the Mark of Cain, too? asked Tyler, staring into the tall man’s face and narrowing his eyes. Don’t you think that I—

Strawberry cleared her throat and said: I, um, I heard they’re gonna put up a big red fence at the end of Haight Street so that the homeless people can’t sleep there in the park no more. Don’t you think that’s fucked? I mean, I really really—

Cut that Mark of Cain shit, the tall man told Tyler. We all disgraced on this world. I don’t even care about that no more. But you ain’t never been treated like I been treated. You ain’t never felt the agony that every black man feels.

What’s that supposed to mean? said Tyler. How can you know what the agony of the black man is? Are you that cocksure a sonofabitch, that you can speak for all black men? What can you see?

I can see this, motherfucker. I can see the burning buildings and the crack-addicted babies and—

Who burned the buildings down? Who addicted those babies? Was it me? Was it my mother? If some tart like Chocolate gives birth to seven babies and they’re all addicted, why is that my fault? Why’s that the agony of the black man? Why isn’t it your fault or Chocolate’s fault?

You disrespectin’ me, Henry? I know you disrespectin’ Choc, an’ she’s a sister. If you wasn’t dickin’ the Queen right now, you just might be dead.

All right, fine. Let’s forget it.

You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve to talk shit to me.

Come on, Justin, whispered Strawberry, he’s your friend…

Shut the fuck up, bitch! he screamed, and punched her in the face. Domino, who was sitting in the front seat, looked away. Tyler bit his lip and wiped tears out of his narrowed little eyes.

| 369 |

I’m happier than shit, Domino mumbled.

I’m glad you’re happy, said the Queen, who was squat, dark and perfect like some tarnished bronze crocodile figurine from ancient Nubia. Now you can go back to your partyin’… An’ if you want anything—

I want Sapphire’s little booty! the blonde screeched.

Ah, said the Queen.

| 370 |

Above Seventh by the V.D. clinic there were two jet trails, and the sunglare was so white upon the gilded diamonds of the church dome.

Sir, you’re too close to the counter, said the woman. Please step back behind the yellow line.

The tall man pushed his wool cap up and silently obeyed her. He felt afraid.

Sir, we can’t track you with the name you gave us, the woman went on. You have to give us your real name. We’re completely confidential. No one can release any information without your approval… — and she slid a clipboard toward him with a worksheet on it, requesting date of birth, full name, and suchlike personal matters. She nodded at him to pick it up.

He took his waiting slip in his hand — letter U, it was — and laid it gently down beside the clipboard.

OK, thank you very much, he said. His leg ached.

You mean you don’t want your test results?

That’s right.

OK, fine, she said with a shrug.

| 371 |

Maj, I want to talk you, the tall man said. His sunglasses were as big and dark as a skull’s eyesockets.

About what?

About this problem that I have.

Shoot, said the Queen.

In private.

You gals go over there behind those cars. An’ Domino, you take Sapphire. Chocolate, you too. Don’t lemme catch you listenin’. That’s a good gal. You all go an’ have a good time, smoke yourselves out… Allrightie now, Justin, what is it? You know I can’t fault you for sayin’ whatever it is you gotta say. You was never a liar nor a coward. An’ remind me to get Sapphire some shoes. You doin’ okay?

No.

I figured. You wanna quit me?

I don’t know.

Same old same old! she laughed bitterly. Sometimes I feel like it almost be scandalous, you know, me out here for everybody an’ no support. An’ without me an’ my rep * you’d all be—

We’d all be what? said the tall man.

Smiling grimly, the Queen fell silent, and they stood gazing across the corner at Strawberry and Chocolate in front of the Cinnabar, Chocolate in white shorts with her dreadlocks rich and shiny as she stood crossing and uncrossing her long brown legs at the passing cars while Strawberry sipped at a sodacan; then before the Queen knew it her two girls were chuckling and dancing round each other whispering and hugging and then a small packet changed hands.

They say that the ten percent we gotta give you, you don’t give it all back. They say you featherin’ your own nest, Maj.

So it’s about bread. That what it’s about for you, Justin?

They say you took that bread.

Myself, huh? All by myself?

But just then Beatrice came running from Larkin Street, on her face a radiant look, and she did not know that the Queen and the tall man were having a private conversation and she was too happy to comprehend the other women’s warning cries because the old man who’d been with her had adored her and given her three hundred dollars all good cash money without any retribution at the end so that Beatrice felt at long last proven sweet as a pastry, hot as a candle, bright as the sun! just as the death’s-head the master of ceremonies had cried out in Merida so long ago, in words which Beatrice had snipped down to fit her shyly uncovered self so that she could dance in the air forever without anyone’s sufferance or legal permission and she was so filled and swollen with love that her joyousness outswelled the edemas in her abscessed varicosed legs and she could soaringly strut like all the Mayan girls who by virtue of the three stripes of floral embroidery on their long white dresses (which is to say, their Marks of Anti-Cain) had long since become angels. The Queen smiled and made a kissing face. Beatrice flew into her arms. Absently stroking the other woman’s long, greying hair, the Queen said to Justin: So. You want to quit? Or you want to bring me down?

Justin swallowed, scanning the streets for vigs and rival beaver-traders. — I’ve heard it said, he finally told her, that you—

That I what?

That you’re in this thing with the cops.

And what have you heard it said that I do with cops, Justin? Flatback ’em?

This bread you take from us…

So I pay protection money. Of course I do. You want me not to do that?

I heard a lot about that, said Beatrice. But you’re doing a favor for us, you know. If that money exists, who pay you for that? Nobody does. I doan care for the money. Nobody paid our Mama the Queen to do a favor for us.

The tall man smiled slightly, embarrassed.

Who says all this, Justin?

He would not answer.

So it’s Domino as usual, said the Queen. She needs a man to give her guidance. She needs to get off the streets. That Domino’s always in trouble. She’s so blonde and beautiful the men always be hittin’ on her, tryin’ to bridle her down with some pimp. And she won’t do it, ’cause she has me and we have each other, so she don’t need no pimp. An’ you believe her?

Timidly Beatrice took hold of the tall man’s sleeve and even though his eyes were as angry and orange-red as the neon glare of the Queen’s Bar down on Harrison Street he did not dare to throw her off because the Queen was watching and she said to him: Please, Justin, you know in Tijuana there used to be a policewoman who used to hurt us by the hair, used to pinch us. If we want to get out of the jail, we have to pay twenny, twenny-five dollars. And if they get you out, if you come back to her street to do your business, if you doan have no more money, you go back to the jail. And even in this America it is not always all right, But we must say thanks to God for our Queen, for helping us with the police and with those others, those bad street men who used to rape us and hurt us. Now even the main street is correct now. The police they doan hurt us any more.

Take my cigarette, darling, said the Queen. And go give some money to your sisters. Maybe you can buy Sapphire some shoes. Bea, you’re my special angel now.

When they were alone again the Queen took the tall man’s hand and said to him: You’re not greedy. You got heart. I know that. Now what’s this thing really about? Is it about what I did to Domino?

Hell, no, you got the right to do more to that bitch than make her come—

Then what is it?

Shit. What am I doin’ this for?

It’s up to you, said the Queen flatly. You don’t have to do nothin’.

Maj, I want us, together, to keep on comin’ up. An’ you keep sayin’ we gonna go down. When they gonna get us? Why they gonna get us? I wanna drag ’em under Henry’s car, take that gun of his an’ blow they heads right off they necks. And you—

An’ I what?

Oh, it’s hopeless, Maj. Just hopeless.

Hey now. You believe in me or not?

I been down for you so long. An’ you not even gonna fight. It’s like you just punked out.

So you feel like I been givin’ you no respect, so you don’t wanna respect me no more. Oh, Justin, that made me so sad.

Maj—

Stay or go, but promise me this: No payback when they get us. You gonna make it. You gonna move on. Don’t pay ’em back. Just let it go.

If that’s how you want it, I’m gonna quit.

He took off his sunglasses then, and his gaze resembled the white cold glare of the sun in a Tenderloin window at evening, red cars, red barfronts, green barfronts, pale tea-colored buildings, and above all this a cold and skittish glance of light refracted by flat dark awareness behind which perhaps somebody was minutely watching the street but no one on the street could see into that darkness. But the Queen, could she see? A dark face, a soul, lurked behind a curtain’s membrane.

C’mere, she said.

But the tall man shook his head and told her: I been close to death at times, Maj. And you know what? Up close I can’t see nothin’. Not a damned thing. ’Cause they ain’t nothin’.

| 372 |

The tall man had the number of the O.G.’s main bitch, a hot young thing named Tashay who’d never turned a trick in her life, so she said. He dropped a quarter into the pay phone on Turk and Powell and dialled her up. The O.G. answered.

Justin here, said the tall man. You remember me? I tole you I’d be callin’…

Okay, nigga, said the O.G. You ready to keep your mind on you life? You ready to use you head?

Yeah, said the tall man, submissive like a child.

Okay. I know you ain’t no coward. I did some checkin’ around. I heard you got a rep. Not a real decent gangbangin’ rep, but at least you got you name known out on the street. You was in Quentin, right?

Yeah.

For auto theft. Well, that ain’t even chickenshit. An’ pimpin’, I know you still be pimpin’. That ain’t nothin’. You got any exes, any one eighty-sevens?*

Yeah.

How many?

One.

I guess you did tell me that. Well, so you got your rep. An’ it wasn’t no True Blue. ’Cause we all be True Blues over here.

No.

An’ they made you on that one-eighty-seven, right? You was in Soledad?

Yeah.

How many bullets^† they give you?

Five years. They tried to get me on conspiracy, but they—

An’ you be makin’ good money now, sellin’?

Yeah.

Where is it?

I don’t keep it, the tall man said. I spread it around.

Righteous. But that Big Bitch sittin’ on you face (and these words the O.G. uttered in tones of the utmost bitterness, like a man’s mistress using the phrase your wife) she don’t take all that scratch out of you hand, huh? ’Cause any man let some bitch rule his finances, well, Justin, my man, he ain’t got no rep. He be the laughingstock. See what I’m sayin’?

It ain’t like that, the tall man said.

Don’t bullshit me, the O.G. said. Now, what you gotta do, you gotta bring her down. Mark her face with acid or a razor or a screwdriver, so can’t nobody say she still be keepin’ you balls between her teeth. You do that, an’ then I can tell my homeys you got heart, okay? An’ at that time, Justin, I can promise you a good place in my organization. You’ll be taken care of. I’ll feed you, dig what I’m sayin’? In one goddamned week you’ll be drivin’ a car, I mean a real car. You can even keep the white bitch, if that’s the way you wanna go. An’ if not, cut her loose. Tashay she got a real sweet li’l sister, I mean real sweet, see what I’m sayin’?

Yeah.

In fact, if you really wanna make a splash, kidnap the Big Bitch. Plan it out, bring her to the homeboys. Then we gonna rape her like two three four five days runnin’ till she good an’ cold. Then you can keep runnin’ her hos down in their area, an’ collect yo scratch. Ain’t no more Queen, man. You be the King, awright?

Yeah.

You better do it, brother. You hear me?

Yeah.

You gonna do it or you just wastin’ my time like some li’l wannabe buster?

I’ll do it.

’Cause she the enemy, man. You wanna get you heart back, you gotta retaliate. Call me when you’ve done it. Then we’ll talk.

The O.G. hung up.

The tall man stood there for a moment. Then he smashed his fist against the phone and he screamed.

| 373 |

Then there came the day when Chocolate, unable to trick because she had an excruciating running sore on her mons veneris, and being unable to trick was unable to cop, approached the Queen with a whine and an opened mouth like a little baby bird. For a long time the Queen regarded her sadly. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. At last she spat into the other woman’s mouth as usual. But this time there came no instant rush, and Chocolate’s withdrawal pangs did not go away. The whore sat for five immense minutes, fidgeting. Then suddenly she leaped up and screamed: Bitch, you lost your power, bitch!

The Queen nodded.

After this, none of the royal secretions seemed to have any effect, and soon the only members of the family who continued to crave them were Tyler and Sapphire.

| 374 |

You ever been here before? said Brady.

Never, the woman said.

Where can I meet you?

Right here at the bar.

Thought you never came here.

Oh, almost never. Six or seven times a year.

Can I meet you down on Turk Street?

That’s where a lot of tricks go and get beaten up.

Which do you like better, safe sex or unsafe sex?

Safe sex.

Why?

’Cause I wanna be safe. I like safe people.

Well, we’re safe people, laughed Brady, and all his boys sniggered.

What’s your name?

Chocolate.

If I pay you a hundred dollars, will you go on television and say that you left that no-good Queen?

There are good things, Chocolate said. I was warm during the winter and she prayed over me. She did help clear up my lung condition.

I don’t give a shit about the good things. I’m only interested in knowing whether you want to make that hundred dollars.

Chocolate was silent.

Hey, you. Guess what I do for a living.

I was wonderin’, but I didn’t wanna find out ’cause I didn’t wanna be in it.

| 375 |

My rent’s thirty-eight dollars a night but the manager is cool; he’ll work with me if I pay it a little late, in bits and pieces. I split it with Justin. He’s my boyfriend. Don’t worry about him. Soon’s I bring you in for a date, he’ll leave. He won’t say nothin’.

The two men sat in the car in the parking lot while Strawberry scuttled round and round them like a cockroach with its left legs pulled off so that it could only go around in circles. — I got to get back to work actually, she kept mumbling; in fact she merely wanted to motel up and take off her shoes, smoke a little bump with Justin, and that she couldn’t do until these temporary employers had gone. When the tall man finally came back, she ran into the motel room after him, leaving the door open so that the two johns wouldn’t think that they were being gaffled, although really they were being scammed by the tall man himself who razored off hunks and chunks of white girl from their purchase just as elegantly as the sixteen-year-old daughter of one of Tyler’s Berkeley friends could make heavenly chocolate chip cookies impregnated with cognac, sweet butter and all manner of excellent things; she’d insisted that he take all the leftovers with him as he departed into a warm Sunday morning whose coffeeshops proclaimed the forthcoming sixtieth anniversary of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade in the Spanish Civil War. — Turkish women rally against Muslim leadership’s policies, a greyhaired man in a denim shirt read aloud while the radio played Purcell and the milk steamer hissed like a rock of crack inside a pipe, that breathy hissing wail like a lobster’s when it gets thrown into a pot of boiling water, the lid slammed down on its agony; that was the noise which the tall man and Strawberry made with the trimmings from the twenty dollar rock of the two ignorant johns who sat growing paranoid in the car, sweating with fear (which smelled the same as the sweat on Bernadette’s tendon-rooted neck with the tattoo below as her loving Queen clicked the heroin needle in and out) looking at watching faces, worrying about cops; to the tall man and Strawberry, however, the noise most resembled the whistle of a train entering a long dark tunnel beneath a mountain; now that love-pair came out on the other side where it was sunny and wild, and the two johns, who at the beginning of the evening had believed all too vividly that the perfect pleasures they could pick from were as numerous as all the translucent plastic cases of the compact disks at Amoeba Records on Haight Street (white price tags for new albums, yellow for used), tried to convince each other that they had nothing to worry about, but the parking lot did not feel very safe because the yellow eyes of black-and-whites kept roving down Ellis Street, and other eyes kept watching them from half-closed motel doors, and meanwhile the two poor johns were still waiting, and only the tiniest pebble of their white girl remained, so Strawberry snatched that out of her boyfriend’s hand and ran out to the parking lot, reaching into the open car window to give the john who was driving this preposterous bump of a bump. Before his disbelief could become anger, she said: We owe you twice as much, I know. The guys next door were out of it; just hold your horses while my boyfriend tries another room… — at which cue the tall man set out to borrow from either the Queen or generous Beatrice, who was easier to ask because she would never mention anybody else’s unkept promise. Knowing that now he owed her, she sighingly yielded up her own lump of happiness, which the tall man brought triumphantly into the motel room. Skilled operator, brain surgeon, he razored off his commission, delivering the net return into the hands of clever Strawberry, who flew back out to the car…

We gotta think for ourselves now, he said to her. No way we’re gonna pay Beatrice back. An’ we gonna start holding out on the Queen, ’cause we ain’t got no choice. Bitch, you hear me, bitch? We ain’t got no time left to be nice.

You’re my man, Justin. If that’s what you say, I’m gonna stay cool. But I love Maj—

Lemme tell you, girl… Oh, what’s the use?

Those two white boys are still out there, his white girl said.

Well, then sell ’em pussy, bitch. Gotta get some money.

Strawberry ran back out to the car and upraised her T-shirt all the way to the armpits so that the two men could see her breasts.

Kind of saggy, the driver said. What are you trying to do? First you gaffle us on rock we paid good money for, then you insult us by offering your skanky tits. What makes you think we have the hots for you? Open your mouth. Let’s see your teeth. Maybe you can give some head, I dunno—

What is this, asshole? You got the nerve to insult me? I’m gonna go get my boyfriend…

The tall man came out of open doorway and said: Know what I’m gonna do? Hit ’em from the front, then roll ’em over an’ hit ’em from the back.

Big fuckin’ deal, the driver sneered.

The tall man took a serrated kitchen knife out of his pants and came on toward the car. The two men started crying out in panic, and the car squealed off.

The tall man grinned. Strawberry embraced him admiringly and said: My man knows how to use his head.

Remember this, the tall man told her. Anybody else, they the enemy now. You hear me?

What about Maj?

That evil bitch just sittin’ there an suckin’ up, drinkin’ up my tears…

Strawberry fell silent in dreary terror.

| 376 |

Actually, everyone’s very nice, the bail bondsman was saying. We’re their best friend. Excuse me. I have a customer.

He hung up the desk phone and shouted: Well, if it isn’t my old friend Justin! What’s cooking?

Same old same old, said the tall man. How you been, Mr. Cortez?

Swamped.

You had a young lady working here who wasn’t so courteous to me, said the tall man. I ended up payin’ a visit to Mr. Norris.

Sorry to hear that, Justin, I am indeed. Was that Diana by any chance?

She never told me her name. But the Queen’s abreast of it.

Oh, yes, the Queen! laughed Mr. Cortez a bit too loudly. And how’s the Queen?

Just fine, Mr. Cortez.

Now, who are we here for today? Let me guess. Is it Beatrice? Chocolate? Domino’s out, I see…

Strawberry.

Wanda Hassig, if memory serves. Does it serve, Justin?

Mr. Cortez, you so smart, your head be bulgin’ out the edges.

All right, I’m going to call up Room 201. —Five thousand for misdemeanor assault, he reported cheerfully a moment later.

Motherfuckers, said the tall man mechanically.

What happened this time, Justin?

Some john pulled a knife on her, so she socked him. That bitch got balls.

Well, cash or credit card?

Stolen credit card okay, Mr. Cortez?

No one can say you don’t have a sense of humor.

I got that when I fell wrongways from my Mama’s ass. Now, Mr. Cortez, Queen only gimme three hundred today.

Someone needs to cosign, then, returned the bondsman with smiling wariness.

You want me to go bothering the Queen for this?

I floated you last time, Justin.

No, last time I went to Mr. Norris.

Okay, but we’re still outstanding for fifty. That was for Lily.

That bitch was supposed to pay you back. That no-good lowdown he-she crackhead bitch…

Be that as it may, I can’t make a living floating people. Now if you want to get the Queen in here I’m sure we can work out a payment plan. I’m as anxious as you are to keep this friendly.

Queen’s your best customer, said Justin.

That she is, replied the bondsman, making no movement.

Beaten and grinning, the tall man counted fifty ten-dollar bills onto the desk.

Do you have fifty more to settle Lily’s account?

I’ll take care of her, Mr. Cortez. I guarantee that.

Well, don’t be harder than you have to. I’d hate to see Strawberry or Beatrice coming down here to bail you out again.

Yeah, at Eight-Fifty Bryant all the girls an’ bitches, they be talkin’ about your kind heart day and night, said the tall man sarcastically.

I’m sure they love you, too.

I was just curious, said Justin. How often you get heat from some nigger or somebody can’t pay?

Everyone’s your friend in this business, said Mr. Cortez complacently. I was just explaining that to somebody when you came. Everyone knows everybody. Everybody loves everybody. Life is great. And speaking of which, my old friend, I need your check stub or California I.D.

The tall man, stricken by a momentary and (he realized) entirely senseless bitterness, flipped his laminated card down beside the money, with almost the same motion as a boy skipping a stone across a river.