The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

by Katrina Prado

  “Hey.”

  “Bart!” I gasp in surprise.

  On the porch stands Bart Strong and another man, smaller in stature, dressed all in black with a gorgeous jet black moustache.

  Bart gives me a sheepish smile.

  “I got your message,” he says. “Glad you passed the lie detector test.”

  I give him a look.

  “Something tells me you’re not here just to congratulate me,” I say.

  I’d left a message on Bart’s answering machine this morning after my visit with Pittsburg P.D., telling Bart that I’d passed the test and of my plan to snatch Robyn from the streets of San Francisco.

  Bart smiles.

  “Technically I’m not here at all.” He tosses his head in the direction of his partner dressed in black.

  “This is Freddie.”

  Freddie gives me a swift nod but says nothing.

  “Does Freddie have a last name?”

  “Uh, the less you know the better,” Bart says.

  Behind them, at the curb in front of the house is a large, dark blue non-descript van.

  I give both men a questioning look.

  “Let’s go get your daughter,” Bart says.

  “Ma’am,” Freddie says. He gives me a chivalrous look as he relieves me of the canvas bag, blanket, and sack.

  I crawl inside the van, sitting gingerly on the backseat behind the driver’s side and motion Freddie that I’m ready. As he muscles the sliding side door closed I catch the Venetian blinds of my neighbor, Mrs. Cotillo, flutter closed. I sigh and make a mental note to avoid Mrs. Cotillo the next time I see her.

  As the two men take their seats and fasten their seatbelts, I look around me at the van’s furnishings. Behind me are a variety of plastic lattice-sided crates filled with equipment. Some things I recognize; flashlights, a camera with what looks like a telephoto lens. Farthest from me, close to the back doors, is a large, black canvas bag. There are also a couple of silver ribbed metallic cases of varying sizes whose contents are a mystery.

  We drive in silence for the most part to the City, each one deep in his own thoughts. I am thinking about Rob. About his absence tonight, about the increase in his drinking, and most of all, about his admission from two nights ago. A Ferris wheel of whys circles in my head. Why would he not say anything about the strange man coming out of Robyn’s bedroom? Why would he put his own needs ahead of his daughter? Why has our marriage deteriorated to such a degree that we no longer communicate with each other?

  “There it is,” Bart says of San Francisco as we approach the Bay Bridge, interrupting my thoughts.

  I dig through my purse for my wallet.

  “I got the toll,” I say.

  “No, ma’am,” Freddie says in a resolute voice.

  He eases the van to the toll booth and has retrieved his change before I can even open my wallet.

  And then in minutes we are cruising the streets of the Tenderloin. It is night now, but not dark. The City has come alive with lights and activity. Fiber optics and flashing neons promoting various clubs and bars, and large plasma screens advertising everything from Coca-Cola to condoms infiltrate the windows of the van.

  “Anyone for water?” I ask, digging through my canvas bag.

  “I’m fine,” says Freddie.

  “I’ll take one,” Bart answers.

  I reach forward, holding out the bottle of water to Bart’s meaty hand, and it is then I see it. A small black metal object in an ankle holster, glinting in the fusillade of light bearing down on us. A gun. I feel a catch in my breath but say nothing. Bart takes the water without meeting my eyes.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  He pulls out a blowup of the picture of Robyn I gave him at our first meeting and sets it on the drink holder between him and Freddie.

  We drift silently, down Van Ness, up O’Farrell. Skimming Polk, we make a left onto Eddy Street. Gliding, sharklike, the three of us scan every single young woman we see. On most of the corners, hookers clot together like mushroom spores, in all shapes, sizes, and colors, but none look remotely like Robyn.

  As we continue our dragnet along Eddy, I am struck by how predatory all of this feels. Like a Great White shark hunting the murky depths. We are the hunters and the prey is my daughter.

  It is then that we pass by The Phoenix Hotel, and I get it.

  “That’s it!” I yell.

  “What’s ‘it’?” Bart asks.

  “The Phoenix Hotel! Chevy, the girl that was beat up whispered the word ‘ Phoenix ’ to me.” I give them both a brief gloss of my visit with Chevy at the hospital two days ago.

  Bart and Freddie exchange glances.

  “The Phoenix is a known party spot,” Bart says. “Lots of dope and hookers,” his voice is optimistic. “Peña could very well be running his girls through The Phoenix.”

  “Good a place as any,” Freddie says.

  Without signaling he navigates smoothly through the maze of one-way streets, a right on Hyde to Turk and then a left onto Larkin, as if he’s done this a thousand times. Miraculously, Freddie is able to snag a parking spot near the corner of Larkin and Eddy, across the street from The Phoenix Hotel.

  “You really know how to maneuver this van, even without using your turn indicators” I say, teasing Freddie.

  “A word of advice about driving the mean streets of San Francisco,” Freddie says in a deadpan voice. “Using your turn indicators is a sign of weakness.”

  Bart laughs.

  Men and women walk up and down the street. Most young; some not so young. A fair percentage look to be homeless or drug addicts or both. A few wander into the Phoenix. I look up and down the street but see no sign of Robyn. Also, no sign of BLU BOY, for which I am grateful. Within minutes Bart says:

  “See that?” he motions with his head towards two guys standing together near the trees of the hotel.

  “What?” I ask, oblivious.

  “Guy just copped some dope,” Freddie says.

  “Yup,” Bart responds.

  I do not see this actually happen and realize how grateful I am to be with these two.

  “I want to thank you both for doing this,” I say.

  “Ma’am,” Freddie says.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen,” Bart begins. “If we see her, Freddie’s our guy. You,” he says looking directly at me, “stay in the van. Robyn’s going to be freaking out and will need to see your face the second we open the doors to the van. Freddie will get her inside here and she’ll be subdued and then we take off for Newport Beach immediately. Got it?”

  I notice that Bart is only looking at me. I nod, wondering what he means by the word ‘subdued’, but keep silent.

  “What about the police?” I ask.

  “We shouldn’t have a problem. Even if there’s a cop nearby, Freddie here should be able to get her to the van without an incident.”

  I catch Freddie looking at me through the rearview mirror and I find myself wondering just who this Freddie person is. I notice that even as our conversation progresses, all three of us continue making frequent glances out the van windows. After a few minutes Bart falls silent and once again the three of us are left to our own thoughts.

  As I scan the street, I find my mind wandering to the time when Robyn will have completed her treatment. What will she be like? Will we do all those mother-daughter things I read about in my magazines? Will she and I be exchanging things like blouses and shoes?

  All of that though seems as far away as the stars and after twenty or so minutes, realize that I’m on the edge of my seat, every muscle tensed in anticipation as I peer through my window. I realize suddenly that I am exhausted. This is the most energy I’ve expended since my surgery. I also realize belatedly, that I’ve forgotten my medicines. I let out a silent breath of exasperation and reach for my bottle of water.

  I sit back in my seat and check my watch, just after ten thirty. I keep my eyes on the activity of the streets. People continue to come and go
. The Phoenix Hotel is a very busy place and through the window I can hear music coming from the bar at the hotel, which must be deafening inside. Ten thirty turns into midnight, which slides uneventfully into one forty-five, and still no sign of Robyn.

  I stifle a yawn and pull out the brochure on Peaceful Acres and peruse the captions beneath the colorful photos by the glare of a nearby streetlight.

  “You been there before?” Freddie asks. His eyes are looking at me looking at the brochure.

  “No,” I say. “But it seems like the perfect place for Robyn. And they told me our insurance would completely cover her stay there.”

  “It sure doesn’t hurt to have good insurance,” Bart says.

  Freddie lets out a snort. “The better the insurance, the more enthusiastic the treatment facility.”

  “It does seem like a nice place, though,” I say.

  Freddie nods once. “Better than most,” he says.

  I meet his gaze in the mirror, but he looks away, out his driver’s side window.

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  Bart looks at Freddie, but his face remains angled away from both of us. Bart looks down but says nothing. The streetlight makes Bart’s graying sideburns glisten silver.

  “He had a daughter,” Bart says, almost beneath his breath. “On the streets; on drugs.”

  I am caught by the word ‘had’, but say nothing.

  “That’s how we met,” Bart says.

  I nod. I find myself wondering what happened to Freddie’s daughter and if this is why he is helping me tonight.

  “What’s her name?” I ask.

  Freddie’s eyes stay fixed on the activity across the street. “Amanda.”

  The mood inside the van is suddenly somber. I can’t think of a single thing to say. Minutes flit by like schools of fish.

  “So,” Bart begins. “This horse walks into this bar.”

  Freddie gives Bart an inquiring look.

  “And the bartender says to the horse, ‘why the long face?’”

  I laugh in spite of the ridiculousness of the joke. And then Freddie laughs too and now everything feels okay; at least on the surface.

  I take another sip of water, hoping to settle my stomach that’s beginning to knead with irritation, and twisting the cap back onto the bottle feel my mouth release into yet another yawn.

  Bart looks back at me.

  “Did you hear the one about the policeman, the priest and the rabbi?”

  I shake my head. “Please, not another bad joke,” I respond.

  “So the policeman says to this priest-”

  “There she is!” Freddie says.

  He is out the door; calmly, smoothly, making his way across the street towards the trees in front of the hotel. My heart leaps as I stare at my daughter, and it’s as if I can’t get my fill of her; and though she is dressed in typical hooker garb, and her hair looks ratted and messy, it is my darling Robyn.

  “ You stay put,” Bart says, exiting the van.

  Suspense crawls up my throat as I watch events unfold.

  Freddie angles away from Robin about twenty feet down the block. He takes a position behind one of the trees and in his dark clothing is nearly completely hidden. Bart continues forward at a saunter in the general direction of the hotel. His hands are in his front pockets. He stops on the corner and leans casually against a stand of newspaper dispensers and then pulls out a cigarette from his front breast pocket. Lighting it, he makes eye contact with Robyn. He gives her an informal hailing nod. She looks away and then back at Bart and licks her lips. From the glare on the window and my distance, I can’t get a read on her face. Is it fear? Anticipation? My stomach clenches with a heavy revulsion. I wipe a tear from my eye threatening to obscure my vision. Bart looks up the block and then down the block and then slowly approaches Robyn. He is close enough to touch her yet makes no move to grab her, simply engages her in conversation and it is only then I realize what is going on. He is posing as a john; he is propositioning my baby.

  I swallow down a hot and sour clot of bile and remind myself to remain calm.

  Bart and Robyn talk. Robyn nods in response to something Bart has said. Bart then hikes a thumb in the direction of the hotel and then quickly motions down the block towards where Freddie is hiding. Robyn shrugs. Bart begins talking and nodding at Robyn, again gesturing down the block. Robyn gives a sidelong glance in the direction that Bart is pointing to and then shrugs again. The two take off directly towards Freddie who remains lying in wait. My heart throbs with torment as I watch Bart and Robyn stroll nonchalantly down the sidewalk.

  And just as they pass Freddie, everything becomes a controlled frenzy of activity. Freddie is suddenly on the other side of Robyn. Bart and Freddie have her and are forcing her across the street. Robyn sees the van and begins a frantic struggle. As the trio jerk and heave closer, I can see the fury and terror in Robyn’s eyes. Through the thin metal of the van I hear her erupt in screams which are quickly muffled by Freddie’s gloved hand. “Oh baby,” I whisper.

  Onlookers barely give the unfolding scene a half second’s attention; nothing more than an uninterested glance. Just another wild night in the City.

  The double doors at the back of the van explode open and suddenly Robyn and I lock eyes. Her face is instantly a convulsion of recognition and indignation. I imagine too, that I see a desperate plea for help, though if I am scrupulously honest with myself, I do not see that. Her face contorts into a blaze of rage and fury and from her covered mouth she attempts an incendiary scream, which Freddie’s hand again muffles.

  Bart has Robyn’s bottom half firmly gripped in an unyielding bear hug while Freddie is somehow able to control her arms. Her body writhes with a choleric violence as they gently ease her on her back on the carpeted floor of the van.

  “The bag!” Freddie says. His voice is taut but controlled.

  Bart heaves his girth across Robyn’s legs and twists to his right, yanking the black canvas bag within Freddie’s reach. Freddie tugs at the zipper of the bag, and within seconds extracts two sets of Velcro restraints. Bart marshals one set on Robyn’s ankles and then slaps the second set around her wrists, now bound in front of her body. Freddie begins digging around in the bag.

  With Freddie’s hand off Robyn’s mouth, she detonates into a diatribe of profanity.

  “What the hell are you doing? Let me go, damn it!”

  Suddenly, from the depths of the black bag Freddie draws out a syringe.

  “What are you doing?” I shout over Robyn’s tirade.

  “It’s necessary,” Bart growls.

  Bart lobs me a grave look as Freddie wrenches the cap off the syringe, jabbing the needle into Robyn’s arm. She lets out a squeak of pain and within seconds her body falls slack. Her eyes roll back and her eyelids flutter closed.

  “What did you give her?” I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice at seeing my daughter’s inert form. I am already out of my seat, stroking her hair back from her face, caressing her cheeks, her forehead.

  “Relax,” Freddie says. “It’s sodium thiopental.” And with that he slams the double doors closed.

  Did I envision such drastic steps when I was filling my little bag with crackers and magazines and bottles of water? Did I think, as Bart warned, that Robyn would come along willingly, grateful for my parental intervention? The truth is, as I sit, cradling my daughter’s limp body in my arms, I don’t really know what I thought.

  I only know that as Freddie wheels the van out of San Francisco and speeds into the black maw of night, I am filled with a profound yet subdued sense that everything is suddenly right with the world.

  September 11, 2002

  I plug my key into the lock of the front door and let myself into the house. It’s only eleven thirty in the morning and already it is sizzling outside. The house isn’t much cooler. My muscles groan with exhaustion and my eyes feel like two round smoldering orbs of lava. Inside, familiar smells surround me; filaments of Robyn
’s Hello Kitty body spray and the floral scent of used dryer sheets wend their way through me. And then the stink of old booze.

  I glance at the small table by the front door and spy Rob’s keys. Fatigue jettisons from my bones and my body is suddenly nearly oscillating with white-hot rage.

  “Hey Baby,” Rob says. He stands at the entrance to the kitchen. “I made coffee.”

  His body language is the very definition of contrition, yet I feel so angry that I don’t dare open my mouth to respond. I stomp into the kitchen, tossing my bags onto a chair and then, crossing to the counter and the coffee pot, punch the ‘off’ button.

  “How did it go?” Rob’s voice is behind me. “Is Robyn in that place?”

  I say nothing, just stay focused on breathing.

  “Your mom called.”

  I remain silent.

  On the kitchen table, next to my stand of pills is a large box of Hostess powdered sugar donuts.

  “I bought donuts,” he says needlessly.

  I snatch one of the small prescription bottles and ground the child-proof cap into the heel of my palm, but I can’t get the lid to release.

  “I’m sorry,” I feel Rob’s hand on my shoulder and I jerk away. At the same time the cap flies off the bottle and a spray of orange and white capsules showers the table and floor.

  “Look, I know I really screwed the pooch on this one-”

  “Don’t!” I spit out.

  I spin around, leaving the mess of pills and head to the bathroom. I need a shower.

  “Baby, wait,” Rob says, his voice laden with penitence. “You’re right,” he says, lumbering behind me. “I know. I’ve got a problem. I wasn’t here last night because I got arrested. Drunk and disorderly. But it wasn’t my fault; some asshole at the bar decided he needed to pick a fight with me. And then the cops, they told me they wouldn’t let me call until I sobered up.”

  I reach our bedroom and stand in the middle of the room, suddenly unable to move further. On the dresser is a framed picture of the three of us standing in front of the house we used to rent on Orchard Avenue back in Aztec, the day we brought Robyn home from the hospital. She is a tiny chrysalis of blankets in my arms. The look on my face I suddenly realize isn’t so much happiness as it is apprehension. Rob’s eyes follow mine to the picture on the dresser.