The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

by Katrina Prado

  I realize suddenly, that I am alone. The darkness feels threatening somehow. I shoot a glance over my shoulder and quicken my pace and am only a few feet from the entrance to the liquor store when I am abruptly yanked backward by the hair. I let out a squawk of surprise and instinctively reach back with both hands to fend off my attacker. But within a fraction of a second, both of my hands have been twisted behind my back, rendering me helpless.

  “Help!” I shout to the cars rushing by. “Help!”

  I feel something hard jab against my spine. And a voice, the voice of evil whispers in my ear.

  “Jou are very slow learner.”

  It is BLU BOY, Antonio Peña.

  “Jou feel dis?” He thrusts the object deeper into my back. He is walking me backwards as he talks. “Jou don scream, or I shoot.” My feet struggle to find purchase, as he wrenches me backwards faster than I can maneuver. I imagine that from a distance it must look like some kind of macabre dance. I make a move with my head trying to see where he is taking me. Instantly, the business end of a silver barreled gun is shoved against my cheek, almost into my eye.

  “Walk,” he commands, jerking me backwards by the hair.

  I search frantically for sight of Freddie returning to the van but he is nowhere. If BLU BOY gets me into his car I am dead. He could take me anywhere, put a bullet into my head and dump my body. My mind races as we move further and further from the safety of the lighted liquor store. I silently vow that no matter what, I will not get into his car. No matter what. But that is not what BLU BOY has in store for me.

  The alley behind the liquor store is rank with the stench of rotting garbage and urine. Shadows seem to tremble in doorways and behind filthy garbage bins. Behind us, movement. Suddenly two silhouettes have me pinned against the bricked wall of the liquor store. Both are wearing dark, hooded jackets, their faces shrouded like specters. BLU BOY stands in front of me inches away. He has shoved the gun into the front waistband of his jeans. Behind him, cars stream by on Larkin Street, their lights creating a strobe of light and shadow that fire and then collapse against us.

  With the precision and speed of a bullet, BLU BOY’s fist launches into my solar plexus, first his left and then his right. Instantly, all the air in the world is crushed from my body. My eyes well with tears as I strain to draw in a breath. BLU BOY’s hand snaps closed around my face, his fingers mashing my cheeks so hard that my left eye is nearly obscured by my own flesh. I think of Chevy lying in that hospital bed, bruised and broken. My bowels churn in terror.

  “ This world is mine,” he menaces softly. With his free hand, he points to the ground beneath him.

  His breath is fetid.

  “These girls are mine,” he whispers, pointing towards shadows down the alley.

  I struggle to see if Robyn is there, but BLU BOY slams my head back against the brick. A sharp spike of pain shoots into the back of my skull.

  I tug against his grip, trying to wrestle myself free to call out Robyn’s name, but he is too strong.

  “Jou interfere again, I kill jour daughter.”

  He releases my face as his right hand pulls the gun from his pants. He points the barrel between my eyes. The ferrous odor of steel and gun oil drifts into my nostrils. He caresses my face with the back of his hand, and I am surprised to discover his skin is as smooth as stainless steel.

  “Jou come back to my world again, I kill jour daughter.”

  He presses the barrel of the gun to my forehead.

  “Jou go to the cops, I kill jour daughter. Sabe?”

  My legs feel butter soft, and weak. My entire body shakes with fear and my voice, when I find it, vibrates with a luminous dread. I grunt out in a brave whisper:

  “You hurt Robyn, and I swear to God, I will kill you.”

  BLU BOY laughs heartily. And then without warning he draws the gun up and then backhands me against the face. Bright stars of shock fill my eyes as the barrel of the gun bludgeons my cheek. I howl out in pain just before everything goes completely black.

  October 8, 2002

  From the murky brume of unconsciousness, I become aware of a man’s voice.

  “Yeah, that’s my thought too. Um-hm. I don’t think she should take any chances; this guy’s playing for keeps. Yeah, I will. Thanks. You too, Bart.”

  I try raising my head, but judders of pain torpedo through my body. My hand goes instinctively to my face; fingers tenderly probe a jagged, zipper like wound just under my right eye. It stings to the touch and I can also tell that the skin surrounding the wound is swollen by the acute pangs my fingers are causing. My entire torso is racked with a gut-splitting agony; drawing in air inflicts little bayonets of pain.

  Though the room is dark, I can make out the coffee table, my purse and travel bag, tossed on top of the easy chair across from the couch, where I am lying. Pickles lies next to me. When she feels me stir she begins purring. I am home. The hallway is framed with light which means the voice I heard was coming from the kitchen. It is Freddie’s voice. I try to sit up, but my body revolts. I yelp out a sharp groan.

  Footsteps. Freddie emerges from the shadows with an icepack in his hand.

  “You’re awake,” he says.

  The darkness and Freddie’s presence in my house make my brain oscillate with confusion.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “A little after three in the morning. Here, put this on your cheek. It’ll reduce the swelling.”

  He proffers the icepack and sits on the couch next to me, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, staring down at me. He reaches out and draws back my hair that has fallen on my face.

  “I came back to the van but you weren’t there.”

  The terrifying incident with BLU BOY is suddenly front and center in my memory.

  “I found you in the alley. You got beat up pretty bad.”

  “It was Peña,” I whisper, as if even in the safety of my own home BLU BOY could hear me.

  “We should call the cops,” Freddie says.

  “No!” I bellow out, and then immediately shrink back into the cushion of the couch in pain.

  Freddie grabs my shoulder.

  “Easy there.”

  “He said he’d kill Robyn if I went to the police.”

  “We don’t even know for sure if Robyn is with him. At least getting law enforcement involved covers our bases.”

  I twist my body facing Freddie and give him a look.

  “No cops. Period. I know Robyn’s with him; I feel it. Besides, he’s on notice now. He knows I’m not about to back down.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Peña’ means business. He could put a bullet through your head with no compunction whatsoever.”

  “Yeah? Well all I need is a gun and I’d be happy to return the favor.”

  Freddie’s jaw line tightens. He gives me a stern look.

  “You’re playing with fire, Margot. This guy is the real deal. He’s not going to be frightened by some mother on a mission.”

  “And I’m not frightened by some punk on the streets who victimizes children!” I spit out.

  And then my strong veneer cracks. The pain of just breathing, the thudding in my head from being pistol whipped and the ache in my heart knowing that Robyn is again out there somewhere becomes a tidal wave of despondency. A tear breaks from my eye, runs down my cheek and into my open wound. Its sting produces more tears.

  I am unable to speak. Freddie holds me and lets me cry.

  “I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

  The warmth of his body is a blanket of comfort and he smells of crisp autumn leaves and a comforting woodsy tinder.

  “I want you to have this,” he says, pulling back from me.

  From a hidden breast pocket in his black vest he produces a gun. It is small, a silver barrel with black grips. I recoil.

  “No,” I shake my head. “I couldn’t.”

  “It may not come down to what you could or could not do,” he says. “It may turn into what you have to
do.” He presses the weapon into the palm of my hand.

  “It’s a Colt. Double action.38 special. It’s small enough to conceal, but it’ll do the job if you get into an impossible situation.”

  I stare at the metal object in my hand and curls of a surreal sensation drift through me.

  I look at Freddie. “I wouldn’t know how to use it if I had to.”

  “I’ll teach you,” he says. His voice is calm, dispassionate.

  I find myself amazed that he can be so composed. His thumb traces an imaginary line down my cheek as his other hand closes my fingers round the Colt, now warm from my skin.

  I close my eyes and as I allow myself to absorb Freddie’s quiet poise, a trickle of something akin to peace wends its way through me. I feel his lips kiss my forehead and the caress detonates a memory of something precious I lost a very long time ago.

  As Freddie leans in to kiss me again, the rattling of a key in the front door invades the silence between us.

  Rob’s imposing presence blots out the front porch light.

  “Rob!” I say.

  “Margot?”

  “Mr. Skinner,” Freddie says, rising from the couch, holding his hand out in greeting.

  “Well,” says Rob, “now that we’ve got everybody’s name, maybe somebody can tell me what in the hell is going on.”

  Rob gazes from me to Freddie and then back to me again.

  “Your wife has been injured. But she’s okay,” Freddie says.

  “What the hell is going on?” Rob responds.

  “Calm down, Rob,” I say. “We were in the City looking for Robyn. I was walking into a convenience store to buy a bottle of water when I was attacked by some hoodlums. I’m fine. No harm was done.” Freddie and I exchange glances.

  I have already decided that the best course for now is to lie to Rob about BLU BOY. Rob has proven to me that he’s a loose cannon and the last thing I need is for him to storm into San Francisco, proverbial guns blazing, especially since I know he’d go straight to the SFPD.

  “Yeah,” Freddie says following my lead. “Couple of street punks but I chased them away.

  Rob seems satisfied by this explanation. He moves to my side, sitting precisely where Freddie was and wraps me in his arms.

  “Oh God, baby, are you okay?” his voice is muffled as he presses me close.

  His grip sends wracks of misery through my body. I grimace silently.

  “I’ll be going,” Freddie says, letting himself out the door.

  I watch the front door close.

  Rob releases his grip around me, takes me by the hands and peers into my face.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know I need help. Please, please.”

  He releases my hands, grasps me by the upper arms and looks me straight in the eye.

  “I’m an alcoholic. I need help; I know that. I will do whatever it takes to make this work.”

  Sister Margaret’s words run through my head: ‘If your husband had cancer or diabetes, would you just abandon him?’

  “Oh Rob, I don’t know. Maybe-”

  “Shhh, don’t say anything. Just rest.”

  “I don’t want ‘us’ to get in the way of rescuing Robyn,” I say, in protest.

  “I get that,” he says. “Don’t worry; it won’t,” he grins. “I’ve got nine days sobriety. Nine days,” he says proudly.

  October 9, 2002

  When I wake up next it is to the ring of the telephone. I hear the click of the answering machine, but the volume is too low for me to hear who is leaving a message. Sunlight carves ardent swathes through the opened curtains. I consult my watch: nearly ten o’clock in the morning. Friday morning. Rob is gone. On the coffee table is a cryptic note: I’ll be back. All my love, Rob.

  My mouth is brackish from the night before. I wince in pain as I push myself from the comfort of the couch. The ice pack that Freddie made for me is now a sack of water on the floor. I pick it up, and walk gingerly, to the kitchen. A stack of mail looms next to the telephone, brought in presumably by Rob this morning before he left. I sift through the envelopes; the water bill, the PG &E bill, and three offers for credit cards. I punch the recall button on the answering machine. One message:

  “Hi Sugar shorts. Just givin’ you a shout. Haven’t heard anything in a couple of days and wanna make sure everything there is hunky-dory fine. Got my test results back too.”

  I play the message back a second time trying to get a handle on Gladys’ tone of voice. I sigh. I’m tired of lying to my mother; tired of dancing this tango of fiction, hiding behind this wall of illusion I have created about Robyn.

  I move to the counter and make some coffee hoping the caffeine will clear my head. As I wait for the coffee maker to finish its distillation I pop a Rolaids, aware of an inner gnash of pain from deep in my gut. From the junk drawer I extract a small spiral notepad of paper and a pen. I sit down at the kitchen table and try to begin writing:

  Dear Mama,

  I haven’t been exactly truthful. There are some things that I need to.

  I rip the page out of the notebook and wad it up into a ball, tossing it to the far side of the table. I try again.

  Dear Mama,

  I have some things that I need to tell you. Very important things. I had hoped to get back to New Mexico to see you, but so much has happened here, that I

  I rip that page out of the notebook as well, mashing it into another misshapen ball and roll it next to its neighbor. ‘So much has happened’ being a euphemism for my daughter running away to walk the streets, and our entire family being terrorized by her pimp, and beginning its slow, agonizing disintegration.

  I pour myself half a cup of coffee, in deep thought about what my next move to get Robyn back home will be. I drink the hot, black brew and burn my tongue.

  “Ah!” I plunk the cup down.

  There is only one place that I want to be; one place that holds my soul hostage; it is the place where I might find my beloved daughter. I pick up the phone.

  “Sister Margaret?” I ask the voice that answers at the Sisters of the Presentation convent telephone.

  “One moment, please.”

  Half a beat later I hear Sister Margaret’s voice, her faint Scottish brogue still evident.

  “It’s Margot,” I say. “Are you going to go feed the girls?”

  I feel I can almost hear Sister Margaret smile in the quick silence that is between us.

  “God willing and the creek don’t rise,” she says and then laughs.

  “I’ll meet you at the convent,” I say.

  It is just after four in the afternoon when I turn the corner onto my street from my adventures in the City with Sister Margaret. She gave my face with its gash over my right eye a long look but said nothing. I alluded to a confrontation with a closet door but she only pursed her lips and told me to help her with the cooler full of bottled waters. Girls came and went, most of whom I’d never seen before. One or two looked vaguely familiar. But of course no one had seen Robyn, though I showed her picture to everyone whether they showed interest or not. Before dropping me back off at my car, Sister Margaret and I sat together in the beat up old truck as she led me in one decade of the Rosary. The calming, nearly hypnotic force of our voices praying the Rosary inside the cab against the juxtaposition of madness outside the pickup created a palisade against the dross of the city.

  As I edge the old Corsica towards the house, I see Freddie’s large blue van parked on the street. He is standing on the curb, leaning against the passenger side door of the van reading a newspaper. I park in the driveway and get out of the car.

  “Hi,” I say, unsure why he is here.

  I glance at the windows of the house; Rob must still be gone.

  He nods once acknowledging me.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “Ready?”

  “Grab the Colt; told you I’d teach you how to use it. Sooner the better.”

  “Oh.” It is t
hen I catch sight of Mrs. Cotillo staring out at us, arms crossed against her chest.

  “Unless now isn’t good.”

  I look down at my watch. My body yearns for a long nap, but it’s good to see Freddie again. I can talk to him in a way that I can’t with Rob.

  “Where does one shoot a gun in the middle of a city?” I ask, walking over to the van.

  “ Martinez gun club.”

  I nod.

  “Where’s the Colt?” he asks.

  I pat the side of my purse. He smiles and opens the van door.

  Freddie drives the speed limit, north on 680 taking the Marina Vista exit. The day has been overcast, even out here in Contra Costa County, the air is knitted by filaments of the winter to come. The change is nice and I crack my window to let in the fresh air.

  “So what’s next?” he asks.

  “Next?”

  “Next with Robyn,” he says.

  I let out a sigh and gaze out the front window. Immense grey cotton ball clouds obscure the sky.

  “I’m not sure, other than to keep going back to the city to keep looking for her.”

  “Last night,” he begins. “when Peña got to you.” He looks at me and then looks back to the freeway. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but I caught up with that guy I recognized. His name is Breed Love. He’s a CI for San Francisco PD. Used to be a big time dealer. He got clean and now helps the cops try to get the kids off the streets. He knows who Peña is, says everybody does. Has girls all over the City and in Stockton and Sacramento too.”