The Whore Of Babylon, A Memoir Part 14

"It was all a ruse. She snuck out of the meeting, gave our administrator the slip, I'm afraid."

My body is suddenly gelatin weak. "How can this have happened?" My voice has risen in volume and timber.

"Look, I'm very sorry, but like I said. We thought your daughter was really getting the program when it turns out all she really wanted to do was gain access to the outside world so she could escape. There's no way we can foresee that kind of deception."

I realize that any continued conversation will just turn into a p.i.s.sing contest and so thank Mr. Simpson for his time and hang up the phone. Helplessness splatters through my body like spilled red wine on white carpet. I glance at my watch while simultaneously dialing Bart Strong's number. I have no hope that he will pick up at this hour, but it doesn't matter. He owes me a phone call anyway.

To my shock and satisfaction he picks up on the first ring.

"Bart Strong," the familiar husky voice answers.

I explain what happened.

"BLU BOY must have found out where she was, and convinced her to leave the treatment center. He was probably waiting for her when she ran off."

"Maybe," he says. "Or maybe she just ran away on her own."

"I'm going back to San Francisco tonight," I say.

"Hold up a minute. You don't even know if that's where she is."

"Right now it's the only thing I have to go on. Maybe I can get someone in the Tenderloin to talk to me."

"I wouldn't count on it. Look, sit tight for a few minutes. I'm going make a couple of phone calls."

I huff out an impatient breath and give my watch yet another glance: seven twenty.

"I'm leaving at eight," I warn.

Hanging up the phone I immediately begin mobilizing various articles that I surmise might be useful for my foray into the dark San Francisco night. I stuff a flashlight, a pair of binoculars I picked up a month ago at an Army surplus store, my ubiquitous bottle of water, a sweater, and my Rolaids, just in case, into a small canvas bag.

I pace the living room, one eye on the portable phone on the coffee table, one eye on my watch, willing the minute hand to hasten its glacial sweep towards the twelve. With five minutes to go, I am suddenly startled to hear a knock on the front door.

I flip on the porch light and peer through the peephole. I twist the lock back and open the door.

"Freddie? What are you doing here?"

The man who helped Bart and I rescue Robyn stands before me; again, dressed all in black, his black moustache the most prominent thing about him.

"Got a call from Bart," he explains.

The dark blue van is parked in front of the house.

"Let's go," he says.

He opens the pa.s.senger side door to the van and I get in, tossing my canvas bag onto the floor in front of me. He closes the door for me and heads for the driver's side, but not before our eyes meet.

As he hops into the van, I peer out my window to see Mrs. Cotillo staring at us. This time she makes no effort to hide the fact that she is watching my movements. I want to smile, but I don't. I turn my face away as Freddie pulls from the curb.

"So, what kind of work do you do?" he asks.

"I'm an accountant," I say; "actually just a bookkeeper," I amend, though technically not even that is true. "But I'm going to be going back to school to get my degree."

Freddie nods but doesn't say anything.

"What about you? What do you do?"

"Actually, I'm a dentist," he says.

"Really?" I say, surprised.

"I have a practice in Antioch."

We fall silent a moment.

"Got any other kids?" he asks.

"No. You?"

He shakes his head. "Amanda was an only child too."

I purse my lips together, my eyes dart from the blur of the East Bay rus.h.i.+ng by my window to Freddie's austere profile. Curiosity about what happened to his daughter Amanda pushes me to ask intrusive questions.

"You mentioned before that Amanda hooked on drugs?"

"Yeah. She had it bad. Started experimenting when she was a freshman in high school, hanging out with the wrong crowd. The usual story."

I wait for him to give me more information, but his eyes travel to the speedometer and then back to Highway 24. The sky in front of us is a dusky violet crisscrossed by nectarine colored skeins of fragile clouds.

"And that's how you met Bart?"

Freddie nods.

"I was desperate. Amanda kept running away. Bart was the only one who seemed to care."

"But things didn't turn out okay," I ask, but it comes out sounding more like a statement than a question.

"Things went south. We tried to do an extraction. In Stockton. A boy, a local g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger was killed; Bart got arrested for manslaughter but the DA couldn't make it stick."

Freddie is silent and I can't think of a thing to say. He clears his throat.

"Amanda OD'd anyway about a month after that. Whole thing left a bad taste in everyone's mouth."

"And that's why you do what you do? Help parents try to save their kids?"

"Something like that."

"Dentist by day, superhero by night," I say with a smile.

Freddie smiles but says nothing.

The City is cold as usual. Freddie again displays his driving prowess, piloting the large blue van as if it were a sleek race car, up and down the streets of San Francisco until we are in the heart of the Tenderloin District. Once we hit Turk, Freddie slows to a crawl; both of us scanning the streets; two sparrow hawks searching for the little mouse.

As we approach Larkin, Freddie's eyes zero in on someone. I follow the direction of his gaze to a small bundle of people strolling down the street, but can't tell who he has actually spotted.

"What?" I say.

"Someone I know," he says easing the van into a parking place. He switches off the van but leaves the keys in the ignition. "A guy that used to hang out with Amanda's friends. He might know something. Stay put. I'll be back in five minutes."

Within minutes the group has both moved from view and I sit and look around at the bright and glaring lights of the city. Somewhere in the distance I hear a siren intone its mournful tenor. My eyes never stop scanning every person I see in the dim hopes that I might find Robyn, but of course I never do.

Five minutes turns into fifteen and then twenty-five. I reach down at my feet for my canvas bag and my bottle of water, but I evidently didn't screw the cap on securely enough because the bottle is empty and the bottom of my canvas bag is soaking wet.

"d.a.m.n it," I say to the air.

I suddenly feel parched and look around the inside of the van but apparently Freddie isn't in the habit of carrying liquid refreshments. I stare out the window at my surroundings. Behind me, across the street and down the block in the shadows is a liquor store. I peer in the direction that Freddie disappeared but see nothing. I pull a five dollar bill from my wallet, and then stuff my purse beneath the van's seat and yank the keys from the ignition.

Outside the night air is charged with competing odors: Chinese food, bus exhaust, and a noxious thread of stale body odor. Cars jet by, in a single direction, everyone seemingly in a hurry. I wait for a lull and then dive across the street in the direction of Fox Liquor and Grocery. As I make my way down the sidewalk a chilly breeze whips into my skin, but my sweater was another casualty of my water bottle and so I clench my teeth against the cold as I skirt a handful of orange and white construction barriers approaching the liquor store. A few feet away from the entrance of the store is a Muni bus stop. A handful of sad looking people are loitering near the graffiti-laden bench. A large, articulated Muni bus rumbles to the stop just as I approach. Everyone at the stop traipses up the short staircase and into the bus and in another second the bus itself trudges away, as it belches out a pall of heavy exhaust. I purse my lips and hold my nose against the stench.

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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 Pena.

"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 mas.h.i.+ng 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. 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 Sabe?"

My legs feel b.u.t.ter 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 G.o.d, 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 Pena," 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 cus.h.i.+on of the couch in pain.