The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

by Katrina Prado

  “Sure,” I say, “whatever.” I wave him off as he retreats back to the deli.

  The disheveled man, still whispering his mantra, at last stands up, seizes his roast beef sandwich and tosses it into the garbage before plodding outside.

  I sit on the stool he just vacated and my thoughts turn to Chevy. In my mind’s eye her soft brown doe eyes appear. She smiles at me, and I wonder: did she make contact with Robyn? Did Chevy convince Robyn to call home? This whole ordeal simply cannot be a coincidence. I make a mental note to ask Chevy the next time I see her; if I ever do. I’m bounced out of my reverie by Rob tapping me on the shoulder.

  “My card was denied,” he growls, thrusting the Visa into my face.

  I dig through my wallet and hand him a ten dollar bill. Rob wanders back to the deli. I peer at my watch; nearly two-thirty. We’ve been waiting for the police now for nearly half an hour.

  Rob returns, plopping a turkey sandwich with all the trimmings down in front of me. Though it looks and smells delicious, fingers of nausea begin to coil around my stomach.

  Rob angles his sandwich around left and then right, finding a suitable spot and chomps down, talking as he chews.

  “So, what’s the deal with the Visa?”

  “I told you,” I say defensively. “I took an advance out and gave it to Sister Margaret, remember?”

  “You said you were going to help her hand out food to the hookers,” he says.

  “Well, the nuns have to have money to buy the food,” I counter. “Besides, you should see these girls. Any one of them could be Robyn.”

  “Well, they’re not Robyn. Criminy, Margot, we barely make enough between the both of us to cover the rent and utilities. We can’t afford to feed half of friggin’ San Francisco.”

  “I don’t want to feed half of ‘friggin San Francisco ’,” I reply, quoting the air with my fingers. “And I told you, we’re doing fine. We can make minimum payments on the cash advance as long as we need to. If we can make the Corsica last one more year, that’ll help. And we’re saving lots of money now that I’m packing your lunches.”

  Rob rolls his eyes as he pops the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “Yeah? Well a man likes to eat more than just baloney all the time.” He swabs the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

  “You really need to meet this Sister Margaret person,” I say, changing the subject. “You know what she asked me?”

  Rob gives me a shrug as he shakes the last remnants of the potato chips from the bag into his opened mouth. I have a sudden image of an open-mouthed blue whale pulling plankton through its baleen. I shake the picture from my head.

  “What did Sister Margaret ask you?” he says in a flippant tone as he crunches the chips.

  “She asked me if I had any faith.”

  Rob grunts, and then grabs his soda, taking a long pull on the straw. I watch my husband carefully for any reaction about the subject, but he declines to offer me anything. I have thought a lot about that question posed to me by the nun with the bright gray eyes. As if faith were the kind of thing you could just go out and buy, like laundry detergent and then be done with it all.

  “Do you?” I ask.

  “Do I what?”

  “Have any faith?”

  Rob shoves the air towards me with his palms.

  “Hey. Don’t go there with me. You know how I feel about all that stuff.”

  I nod. From Rob’s strict Catholic upbringing had come his fatiguingly irksome one-liner about being a recovering Catholic. Memories of my own Baptist background complete with the terrifying hellfire and brimstone sermons that seemed to stretch in ever-increasing length every week until I came to dread Sundays with an unflinching hatred still loom in my own memory.

  “I know, I know. But-”

  “Didn’t you tell me once,” he interrupts, “about that preacher your mom liked so much and how he caught got with his pants down, literally, in some motel with the church secretary who was married or something?”

  “Yes, Rob, I remember that and I remember all your stories about how the nuns mistreated you in school. But Sister Margaret is different.”

  “Yeah, right.” He grabs my plate and considers my uneaten sandwich.

  His eyes catch something in the window. I crane around, to get a look at whatever he is watching. An older woman, obviously a prostitute and a middle-aged man exit the O’Farrell Theatre arm in arm, laughing. The woman glances in the direction of the Bread and Butter Market as they walk; her uneven smile reveals several missing teeth.

  “Oh jees,” Rob says, cringing. He consults his watch. “Criminy, where are the friggin’ cops?” He stands up and huffs out an exasperated breath.

  And then, as if cued on a movie set, a black and white patrol car eases into view and double parks in front of the market. Two policemen emerge from of the car looking all business and walking tall. It isn’t until they are at the door of the market that I realize one of them is a woman.

  We are questioned together and then separated. Rob is ferried towards the back of the market by the tall black cop, out of my sight and earshot. I am ushered towards the front window by the young Chinese woman whose condescending smile makes me already dislike her. We go through a series of standard issue question and answers. I try to contain my impatience with her as the swirl of fire in my stomach begins turning again into nausea. I clasp my midriff with my hand, which startles the policewoman.

  “You look a little pale. Are you okay?” she asks me.

  “I’m fine. Please. You’re not listening to me,” I say in protest. I suddenly feel clammy; I wipe my hair back from my face with my forearm. “My daughter. Her name is Robyn. Here’s her picture. She’s-”

  “I know, Ma’am. She ran away.”

  “She didn’t just run away,” I reply curtly. “I already told you. She’s listed as an endangered runaway. Her picture’s been distributed by the NCMEC. You should have a record of that. She called my husband,” my voice cracks with emotion, betraying me.

  “Calm down, Ma’am.”

  “I am calm!” I reply angrily. “Why don’t any of you people take me seriously?” I realize I am on the verge of hysteria. I pull down a deep breath of air, trying to still the passion of my despair.

  The crackle of the policewoman’s radio perched on her shoulder breaches our war of words. She turns her attention to the radio and responds. I step towards the front window and lean my forehead against the cool pane of glass, closing my eyes. My God I feel sick. The aching in my stomach feels as if it has pushed deeper into my body. Instead of the usual ebb and flow of pain, it is now a persistent, roiling, volcanic explosion, seemingly burning flesh upon flesh.

  It is when I open my eyes that I see it. Through the window; I see the car, the BMW from my very first visit to this God-forsaken part of town. BLU BOY. I watch, frozen for precious seconds as the BMW slowly cruises by, its driver flashing me an evil grin, his arm around the blond in the seat next to him.

  “Robyn!” I scream.

  I explode out the door of the market before the policewoman reacts. Already, all I can see is the fading letters of the distinctive license plate as the BMW jets away, its tires defiantly screech at me, the sweet blond head of hair fleeing from my view like a ghostly apparition.

  And just as suddenly, a convolution of events takes place. A fiery arrow of distress pierces my body, throwing me to the ground. Hunched over, my body writhes, in a futile effort at escaping the savage, white-hot pain detonating throughout my abdomen. I feel the hands of the policewoman on my back, shouts of concern drift by me. I think I may even hear Rob’s voice, distraught, hovering near my side, but I can’t be sure of reality; the pain has taken control of me now. I open my mouth to talk but no words come out. I am retching, my body twisting in agony, as I vomit a spray of bloody foam into the putrid gutter of the streets of San Francisco.

  ***

  “You’re in post-op. The doctor said the surgery went real good.”

  Deep
inside a formless darkness I hear Rob’s voice. My mind is veiled by layers of woolly fog. I will myself to move, but my body stubbornly resists. My consciousness drags from shadow to thought as I open my eyes. I see Rob’s face, his body is bent over me and then I become aware of his hand on my own. He squeezes my fingers.

  “Hey Babe,” he says, bending down to kiss me on the forehead.

  “Robyn,” I say, my voice froglike.

  I try sitting up but a shock of pain radiates through my abdomen. I cough, attempting to clear my throat and that too, produces another spasm of agony. I groan, releasing my head back down on my pillow.

  “Relax,” Rob says. “You just had laparoscopic surgery to repair a bleeding ulcer.”

  My hand finds the three small patches of bandages on my stomach.

  “They want to keep you overnight just to make sure.”

  “What about Robyn?” I croak.

  “They were in pursuit when the ambulance came and got you. The cops promised to send somebody by the hospital to let us know what happened,” Rob says.

  His hand on my shoulder feels dictatorial.

  “The Bread and Butter, BLU BOY,” I mumble, fighting against an anvil of somnolence.

  “Shhh,” he whispers. “You need to stay quiet.”

  A nurse drifts by, and plays with one of the tubes attached to my body and I fall back into a black void.

  September 3, 2002

  I am dreaming the sweetest dream. I am cradling my infant daughter, nestling her as she dozes contentedly in my arms. I touch my face to her and smell her baby scent, its sweetness so dear, the aroma stirs a tickle of ecstasy deep in my heart. Her fine, downy hair is moth-wing soft and I have never been so happy in all my life. And suddenly, like the bursting of a balloon, she is gone.

  My eyes open to the small hospital room. The room has no windows and is dark save for a small, weak light off to the side by the sink. Several feet away from me sits Rob, his crumpled form asleep in a chair. A mottled gurgle of sound escapes me as I bring my hand to the incisions on my stomach. Rob stirs.

  “Hey,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Robyn?”

  “No one from SFPD’s come by yet,” he says, standing up. “But they promised they would as soon as they had something definite to tell us.”

  He walks over, washing the exhaustion from his face with his hands.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  He consults his watch.

  “It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Labor Day weekend.”

  “Rob, it’s important that we contact Bart Strong, the private eye.”

  I feel his mood immediately cool.

  “If the police come up empty-handed, Bart might not. He can do things the cops can’t, you know.”

  Rob frowns. “A private eye takes money.” He gives me a look.

  “I’ll get another advance on the credit card,” I say, coughing out the cement dryness of my throat.

  “That card’s already maxed out,” he snaps.

  “Then I’ll get a new card!” I rasp out with irritation.

  A tap at the doorway interrupts us.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Skinner?”

  A tall man in a dark beige sport coat walks into the room. His dark hair is neat, combed back. As he approaches the bed, from the shadow between his coat and crisply pressed shirt, I catch the outline of a gun and holster strapped to his side.

  “I’m Detective Covey.”

  “Where’s our daughter?” Rob says.

  I inch up in the bed, ignoring the pain in my abdomen. My eyes stay fastened on Detective Covey’s stoic face, and I find myself thinking that if he doesn’t play poker, he should.

  “The two patrolmen, Eddy and Wong were able to track down the BMW with the license plate BLU BOY, but your daughter wasn’t the passenger riding with Antonio Peña.”

  Rob’s shoulders drop. I close my eyes; grit my teeth against a tide of hopelessness. Detective Corey sighs and clears his throat.

  “Peña is a pimp, as you probably know. The woman he was with is Joyce Desky, a twenty-four year old known prostitute.”

  “Can’t you just arrest Peña?” Rob says.

  “Look, I know you’re frustrated, but we can’t just go around arresting people for driving around the streets of San Francisco.”

  “He was taunting us,” I say.

  “That may be,” Detective Corey says, “but when Officer Eddy stopped Peña, he realized that the young woman in the car wasn’t your daughter. Peña was able to show a valid driver’s license as well as proof of registration and insurance. The officer had no other probable cause to detain him.”

  “This is bullshit!” Rob growls. “Our daughter is out there somewhere!” He stabs the air with his finger.

  “Settle down Mr. Skinner,” Detective Corey’s voice hardens. “As a matter of procedure, Pittsburg P.D. should request you both take lie detector tests, just to rule you out.”

  “Lie detector tests?” Rob’s eyes bug out. “You’ve gotta be friggin’ kidding me!”

  “Relax. It’s standard procedure.”

  “Standard procedure my ass. Just because you guys can’t do your job, you pick on the parents. What a waste of-”

  “Rob,” I say, reaching out for his arm, but he jerks away from me.

  “No!” he says to neither of us. “Our baby is out there somewhere, maybe hurt, maybe dead for all you care, and all you can do is tell me is take a friggin’ lie detector test?”

  Detective Corey turns his attention to me.

  “If you suspect that your daughter is being held against her will, or has been abducted, the first step is a lie detector test to rule out the parents. It’s as simple as that.”

  I close my eyes as the detective concludes with assurances that San Francisco P.D. will do all it possibly can to resolve the ‘situation’. He leaves us with his card and then is gone.

  September 8, 2002

  “Look Mom, I really have to go,” I say.

  For the last twenty minutes, Gladys has been giving me a protracted description of the complete medical examination by the newest love of her life, a Dr. Hunter.

  “I’m sorry to keep you honey, I just didn’t want you to worry.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” I say.

  We complete our conversation with the standard Q and A on when we can all come out to “visit for a spell” and then I hang up.

  I push the dial button and phone the office letting Carmelita know about my surgery and that there are no new updates on Robyn.

  “We’re praying for you and your daughter,” Carmelita says over the phone.

  “Thank you. Hopefully she’ll be home very soon,” I say.

  “Oh, just one more thing,” Carmelita says. When do you think you’ll be back at work?”

  “The doctor said I’d be fine to come back next week. No lifting more than ten pounds, no Ibuprofen, and take all these meds” I say, staring at the table of prescription bottles in front of me.

  “Like I told you,” Carmelita responds, “don’t worry about a thing. The important thing is that you heal.”

  “I feel fine now,” I say, probing my abdomen gingerly.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Carmelita says. “There’s some vendor, a Moore Floral and Nursery that keeps calling for you, but won’t leave a message. Do you know what that’s about?”

  “Oh that. Yeah, they submitted an invoice from 2001 for some yard maintenance for that property in Martinez, but I don’t show an open P.O. Just tell Peggy to make sure she doesn’t pay that bill until we get it straightened out.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” says Carmelita. “No one knows what kind of printer cartridges you always order. Peggy wanted me to ask you if you get it from Office Depot.”

  “In my bottom drawer is a file that has all that info,” I say. “Have Peggy look there.”

  We say our good-byes. The phone immediately rings. Carmelita with ‘just one more thing’, I’m sure.

/>   “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Skinner?”

  It’s the voice of Bart Strong, the private investigator. My heart flips in my chest.

  “Yes?”

  “Bart here. Sorry I’m just now getting back to you. Family reunion back east.”

  I update him on the recent spate of events, including Rob and I scheduling the lie detector tests.

  “I just don’t understand why law enforcement isn’t doing more,” I conclude.

  “Listen,” Bart says. “I talked with a cop friend of mine in the department. Every time a foster kid decides to stay out late or spend the night at a friend’s house, the law requires the foster family to file a report. Between foster kids, and abused kids, as well as the garden variety runaways like Robyn, you’re looking at hundreds and hundreds of kids. Police just don’t have the resources necessary.”

  “But these are children,” I say in a petulant voice.

  “Society’s been pushing the envelope for years. Remember those Brooke Shields ads for jeans in the eighties? She was just a teenager. And those ads were tame compared to what Abercrombie and Fitch is putting out today.”

  Their latest catalogue shows college aged teens nearly naked, having orgies.”

  “My God,” I whisper.

  “And that’s not all. My friend says there are ads out there targeting thong underwear to seven to fourteen year old girls.”

  “What is wrong with people?” I exclaim.

  “When you’ve got little girls advertising lingerie, it’s not that big a leap to start looking at them as sexual objects. Pimps are just capitalizing on this trend.”

  I feel like gagging. This can’t be happening. What has happened to our world; to basic decency? And what’s worse, my daughter is caught up in this vortex of filth and depravity. My heart swells with worry. I push away the desperation that threatens to subsume me.

  “I want you to kidnap my daughter,” I say.

  I hear Bart take a sharp intake of breath.

  “Listen Mrs. Skinner. I told you when you hired me; I don’t do extractions.”

  “Well then give me the name of someone who does,” I demand.