Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

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.

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.”