“Jou don belong here lady,” he says. His breath is sour and stinks of decay.
I instinctively hold my breath to keep from gagging.
“My daughter,” I whisper in a blind panic. Tears spill from my eyes. I can feel my bottom lip trembling in fear.
“Jor daughter is not here,” he says.
“Jou,” he growls, “don belong here either,” he repeats.
He presses his lower body to mine. Where his pocket is, I feel a hard, rectangular object. A gun? My heart leaps to my throat.
“Please,” I plead.
We stand there a moment, his stare boring into me. The dark and cold engulf me now. His hand is on my cheek now. I pull back slightly in a reflexive jerk. In an oddly tender motion, he wipes away a tear with the back of his thumb then licks my tear from his skin.
“Jou go now,” he says, winking. He backs away slightly. Enough for me to get my hand onto the handle of the car door behind me. Keeping my eyes on him I scoot into the safety of my car.
“Jou don’ come back,” he threatens.
I feel watched. As if the windows had eyes and all of San Francisco waits with a sullen anticipation, my exit from this place.
I wrench the car into drive and speed away. I drive, reckless with emotion, sobbing as I think about my precious little girl entangled in such a gruesome world. How can I ever save her?
After what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes, I somehow find my way back to the Bay Bridge and speed home; hopeless and without a plan.
August 29, 2002
Saturday morning.
I’ve been awake since three-thirty, fighting my churning stomach with antacids. After several hours of traipsing uselessly around my dirty kitchen, grinding my teeth and sipping tepid coffee, I decided to head to San Francisco again.
I left Rob snoring the morning away in the bedroom. He is still angry with me for my first trip to the City. Rob and I have become strangers, little atoms, bouncing off each other in our confined space, the hovel we call home.
I have come here three additional times in the past week; trolling the streets, visiting various youth shelters as I locate them, surrendering pictures of my daughter to anyone willing to take a copy.
Pale sunlight diffuses the tired, dirty streets in lacy patterns; tufts of frosty air from a rigorous August wind lash my cheeks as I make my way towards the Diamond Youth Center on Central Avenue, just north of Fell St. The youth center is the last place I haven’t yet visited that caters to the lost and neglected runaways in my search for Robyn.
Irrationally, my thoughts alight on visions of Bart Strong, the private investigator I hired to help me find Robyn. If I try hard enough, I can almost conjure up how it will be: he will call me and in a triumphant and manly voice, tell me that he has Robyn, safe and sound, sitting in his office and I can come pick her up anytime. I wipe away a mote of dirt that has flown into my eye with the heel of my hand and dispel my fantasy. Since our initial meeting we have had only minimal contact. I called him the day after my first visit to San Francisco, telling him of being threatened by the swarthy man in the business suit and the BMW with the license plate: BLU BOY. Bart said he was probably a pimp and my presence there wasn’t good for business. He promised to do some checking to see if he could come up with any concrete information, pledging a phone call within the week.
Diamond Youth Center looks more like a teenage hangout than anything else. A girl with hair several colors of the rainbow leans against the brick wall by the doorway. She has several piercings along her ears and a large silver stud in her chin, just below her lower lip. She is wearing a short, tartan plaid skirt, and beneath the skirt, bright pink tights finished off by black military style boots. She is laughing and talking with a boy who looks barely old enough to be a teenager, dressed in what looks like camouflage garb, but is covered with large silver zippers sewn at all angles up and down the legs of the trousers. Both of them are smoking. On the other side of the doorway are a handful more kids in similar attire; I scan all the girls faces, realizing in an instant that Robyn is not among them.
Though my heart sinks, I draw in a resolute breath, opening the door to the youth center. Inside, I am greeted by a gentleman who looks like a throwback from the sixties. His long, gray hair falls in spirals along his shoulders. His skin is a light brown, like aged shoe leather. A small gold stud catches the light in his left earlobe. On his desk sits a phone and a couple of two-inch dirty white binders. On the floor, next to his desk is a large box filled with containers of deodorants, boxes of bar soaps, and toothpastes. Behind him, through an opened door, I can hear the noise of teenagers; music and voices, punctuated by occasional laughter. On my left, the entire wall is wallpapered by posters and pictures of missing boys and girls.
“You look a bit lost,” he says with a sympathetic grin.
I give him a weak smile, my hand already plunged to the depths of my purse, retrieving another of the endless copies of Robyn’s pictures.
“I’m looking for my daughter,” I say and thrust the picture into his hands.
He gazes at the photograph for a couple of moments. When he looks up at me, I see a vale of compassion in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I haven’t seen her. But that doesn’t mean anything. There are nearly two million homeless kids in the United States; five thousand or so in San Francisco alone. Are you local?”
I notice that he does not perfunctorily hand Robyn’s picture back to me.
“From Pittsburg,” I say.
He nods once. “I assume you’ve already contacted the police?” he asks.
“Yes,” I look down. “They seemed to think Robyn was just hiding out at a friend’s house for a few days.” I look up and meet his gaze. “But it’s been almost two weeks now.”
“That’s pretty common when you’re talking teenagers. Do you know, did the cops enter her name into NCIC?”
I frown. “What’s that?”
“ National Crime Information Center. It has a missing persons file.”
I shake my head. I have no idea.
Just then, a young man’s voice erupts into an angry shout.
“Come on, man!” he yells, batting the air like a gorilla. He looks to be sixteen or seventeen. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail. His clothes are clean, but his jacket looks two sizes too big. He towers over a short woman, a nun in a black habit, her head adorned by a black wimple trimmed in white. She crosses her arms and draws in a breath; her shoulders seem to inflate. Her feet are bolted to the floor between the young man and the front door.
“Carlo, that is not acceptable,” she counters. “You promised me you would study. I know you can ace that test if only you will try.”
The man behind the desk chuckles. “That’s our local ‘Mother Teresa’,” he says.
Carlo hunches his shoulders. He kicks at a spot on the floor, his face scowling. “Man,” he says, glaring at the nun, “Lisa said I’m a real man,” Carlo says, puffing out his chest. “She ain’t gonna wait for me forever.”
The man behind the desk leans towards me and whispers, “she’s small, but tough. Think ‘grandmother’ on steroids. The kids love her.”
The nun shakes her head at Carlo. “She can wait a few hours; at least until you’ve finished studying.” She steps close to the boy and ribs him with an elbow. “Get on back in there,” she says, reaching out and giving his shoulder a firm pat. “Real men keep their promises.” She gives him a steady gaze.
Carlo reluctantly retreats into the back room.
“Sister Margaret?” says the man behind the desk.
Sister Margaret angles her head towards us and smiles. She walks to the desk and holds out her hand.
“Hello,” she says, smiling.
Her handshake is firm, though her hands are aged. Her doughy face, captured by the wimple, is the face of an old lady, except for her bright gray eyes. They glisten with an ebullient spirit.
“This is,” s
ays the man behind, the desk, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Margot,” I say, “Margot Skinner.”
“Margot, this is Sister Margaret.” He looks up at the nun. “Her daughter is missing.” He hands the photograph of Robyn to Sister Margaret. She considers the picture a moment, and then returns her attention to me.
“I remember seeing a spot on the news.”
“Yes!” I say. A flutter of hope trills in my chest.
Sister Margaret glances at her watch.
“I’m late,” she says. She looks up into my eyes. “Wanna go for a ride?”
A ride? I shrug. What have I got to lose?
“Sure,” I say.
“Come on,” Sister Margaret says, nodding towards the front door. She snatches Robyn’s picture from the hand of the man behind the desk.
Before opening the front door, she spins around. “And Jerry, if Carlo so much as steps one toe into the lobby before he’s done studying, tell him he’s going to have to answer directly to me!”
“Yes ma’am,” Jerry says, giving her a mock salute and a grin.
Outside, the air feels even colder and I tug my sweater to my chest. The haze of stale Chinese food hangs in the air. Sister Margaret is walking so briskly that I am almost trotting in order to keep up with her. We round the Center, and behind the large building is an alley. Parked in an alley is an old pickup that looks like something from The Andy Griffith Show. In its bed are a dozen large coolers in various colors and brands. The truck’s maroon paint is pocked by large deposits of rust and the front bumper is tied onto the truck with dull yellow nylon rope. Sister Margaret opens the driver’s side door, motioning me over with a nod.
“Hop in,” she says.
The look of surprise on my face makes her laugh.
“Passenger side door is broken.”
“Oh,” I say sheepishly.
I slide across the worn bench seat, smoothing out the blue flannel blanket which covers various gouges and rips in the Naugahyde as I go. The smell inside the cab reminds me of a thousand pleasant memories.
We lurch forward and I try to conceal my alarm as I notice that Sister Margaret is so short, her feet barely reach the gas and brake pedals.
“Come on, you old bucket of bolts!” she exclaims, giving the steering wheel a sharp rap with the heel of her hand. The truck cannons onto the street, and rounding the corner of the alley, I feel the back end pitch upwards as the back wheel strikes the curb. The cover to the glove compartment flops open. Sister Margaret eyes the cover and then looks at me. I snap the cover closed and give her a hopeful smile.
“This whole outfit is held together by prayer and Scotch tape,” she says with a broad grin.
We wind our way down city streets, Hayes to Baker, and then onto a major thoroughfare, Oak and to another rundown looking area. Murals of colorful graffiti cover many of the dull grey walls of the buildings that otherwise look abandoned.
“How long has your daughter been gone?” she asks.
I recount the events of the previous two weeks. Sister Margaret grimly nods as I talk, as if she’s heard all of this a thousand times before.
“Did the police advise you to call the NCMEC?” she asks.
“What’s that?”
“ National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. They can create posters for you that can be distributed nationwide.” Sister Margaret’s voice is dead serious.
“But Robyn’s friend Jenny said she’s in San Francisco.”
“If Robyn got mixed up with prostitution like your P.I. friend suggested, then it’s possible she could already have been moved.”
“Moved?” I ask. My heart thuds in my chest.
“You mentioned BLU BOY?”
I nod.
“He is a pimp,” she says, confirming Bart Strong’s earlier suspicion. “It’s common for pimps to move their girls from city to city to evade law enforcement.
I fight the sting of tears and try swallowing down the burn that flares in my gut.
“But she’s only fifteen,” I say.
“The average age of a teen prostitute on these streets is twelve to thirteen.”
I groan aloud.
“Customers vastly outnumber the prostitutes. For every fifteen hundred girls there are between fifteen and thirty thousand johns. These girls come from all kinds of homes. Neglect, abuse, you name it.”
“There was no abuse or neglect,” I argue.
Sister Margaret sighs. “Society puts enormous pressure on young women to be perfect and sexual from a very young age. Teenage girls are notorious for their low self-esteem,” she says. “Was she having trouble in school?”
I feel struck, as if by a dagger. I nod. Silent tears fall to my lap. “Always,” I whisper.
Sister Margaret nods.
The truck pitches to the curb and slows to a stop on a street that looks as forlorn and hopeless as I feel.
Sister Margaret yanks the gearshift into park and gives me a steely look.
“Make no mistake,” she says, “You’re in a war that you must win here. And if BLU BOY’s got a hold of your daughter, getting her back will be the fight of your life.”
The nun switches off the engine.
“Give me a hand,” Sister Margaret says, shooting out of the cab of the truck.
Even before I’ve come round to the back of the vehicle, the agile nun has already lowered the truck bed door and torn the lid off cooler closest to her. Inside, dozens of sandwiches are piled to the rim of the cooler.
“Grab that blue cooler,” says Sister Margaret.
I pull it towards me and flip off the lid. Inside is bottled water.
She turns around, leaning on the truck folding her arms across her chest, a rampart against the frigid wind that buffets both of us. The rank odor of sewer hangs stubbornly in the air. I grit my teeth to stifle a gag, and my hand dives into the pocket of my jeans for a Rolaids. Sister Margaret kicks away an empty Styrofoam container stained with spaghetti sauce that the wind has blown against her leg.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“We wait,” Sister Margaret says with a smile.
A siren screams in the distance.
“Do you have any recent video of your daughter?”
“What?”
“Home movies?” Sister Margaret adds.
I search my memory. The last time we used the video recorder was when we moved to Pittsburg. I nod.
“It’s about a year old,” I say.
“Contact the media again. See if you can get another segment aired that includes that video. And you should call the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children; have them make up posters. They’ll distribute them throughout the U.S., also to the F.B.I. and the state clearing houses.”
“But the police said Robyn probably wasn’t abducted.”
“The NCMEC can register her has an ‘endangered runaway’.”
“My husband says it’s best to let the police handle all this,” I say.
Sister Margaret shakes her head. “ You are your child’s most powerful advocate. Don’t surrender that position to law enforcement. They are understaffed and overworked.”
Before I can respond, I see, from the corner of my eye, a young Hispanic girl approach us. She has red platform shoes and a matching red miniskirt. She hugs a faux fur jacket to her chest and gives Sister Margaret a tired smile.
“Good to see you Felicia,” the nun says reaching into the cooler for a sandwich.
“Hey Sistah,” Felicia says in a heavy accent.
Another girl approaches. She is a young black girl, wearing shorts, so short I cringe inwardly at how uncomfortable they must be. She ambles towards us unsteadily, clopping down the street in ultra high heels. Two more girls appear behind her similarly dressed.
Half a dozen young girls crowd round us, greedily chomping down the sandwiches. Some girls eat two or three sandwiches before guzzling down the bottled water. Sister Margaret makes small talk with
them, calling each by name as the girls give me a wary eye. Each one is wearing a different perfume, producing a sickeningly sweet olfactory cacophony that wreaths us.
“Yolanda, where’s your coat?” Sister Margaret asks one of the girls who’s only clothed in a mini skirt and halter top.
“Sistah, I done tol’ you my name is ‘Delicious’,” the young girl says giving the nun a pointed look. The other girls laugh good-naturedly.
Sister Margaret trots round to the cab of the truck and opens the door. From behind the bench seat, she pulls out an old navy pea coat. As she approaches Yolanda, she flings the coat at her.
“If you catch cold, you’ll end up in the ER again,” Sister Margaret warns.
“Nag, nag, nag,” Yolanda says, rolling her eyes. She shrugs into the coat giving Sister Margaret a grudging look, but it’s plain from the relief on her face that she is grateful.
Sister Margaret then whips out Robyn’s picture.
“This girl’s name is Robyn. Anyone seen her around?”
My heart thuds in my chest, not only at the abruptness of the nun, but also as each one of the young girls cranes their necks for a peek at my daughter.
One of the girls emits an audible tsk-tsking as she shakes her head no. Two of them withdraw back to the grimy streets.
“This is Margot, her mother,” says Sister Margaret. “She just wants to make sure that Robyn’s okay.”
I dart a concerted glance in the nun’s direction, but she ignores me.
“If you see her, tell her to make contact.”
The girl in the red platforms nods, giving me a wary look.
Eventually all of them drift away.
“I want Robyn home,” I say sternly.
“I know that,” says Sister Margaret. “They know that too. But you have to know how to talk to these girls without scaring them off.” Sister Margaret arches an eyebrow at me.
And so the morning progresses. They come in twos or threes. All of them young. All dressed in ridiculous outfits. All of them hungry.
The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir Page 6