Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

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.”