The Whore Of Babylon, A Memoir Part 20

November 15, 2002.

"Look up for a sec," the young man named Philip says to me. He speaks with a lisp and his fingernails are painted with clear gloss. "Hey Joanie, I think we're gonna get too much kickback on her neck under the lights... get me some Derma Blend number three."

A young woman with pencil thin legs wearing skinny jeans and a revealing deep-V-cut top nods and sprints away only to return seconds later with the makeup Philip requested.

"Hi, I'm Donnie," another young man approaches me with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. His jeans are faded and have holes at the knees. Although he is behind me, we are looking at each other through the mirror that I'm sitting in front of, as Philip applies the finishing touches to my face with an air brush contraption that looks more like something that belongs in a hospital operating room.

"I'm Margot," I say.

"So you're going to be going on with Mr. McGowan in about three minutes, okay?" Donnie says.

"Okay," I reply, inhaling deeply.

"Relax," Donnie says. "Mr. McGowan is super nice. Are you nervous?" he asks.

I swallow down a globe of terror. "A little," I say.

"Don't be nervous. Mr. McGowan is super nice."

Behind us an older man with a graying beard sticks his head through the doorway and glances our way. "We're going to commercial in ninety seconds," he says.

"Right," Donnie says, looking back over his shoulder. He then faces front and meets my eyes. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you on the set."

My heart thuds in my chest, anvil heavy, as I follow Donnie through a long corridor to a set of closed double doors. A large red light above the doors flashes off and on. Chest high windows on the doors reveal a cavernous sized room. On the left side a large desk like piece of furniture sits, like an island. On the front of the island in bold print is the station logo: KTVU KTVU Fox Fox 2 2. Behind it sit a man and a woman, both smartly dressed. The man is looking directly at a camera the size of a small car and talking. The woman is silent, but is wearing a concerned look. She too, is looking into the camera. There are actually several cameras in the room. Three situated in front of the man and woman. And two more to the far right are facing a small area set up to look like a living room. Overstuffed easy chairs face each other and are separated by a coffee table.

Several feet back behind the cameras and mikes and equipment, in the shadows, are a handful of director style chairs filled with various KTVU staff, except for one.

"Your friend's over there," Donnie says, inclining his head in the direction of Sister Margaret who is sitting near the employees. Her face is calm but resolute.

After learning that the young girl found beaten to death in San Francisco was not Robyn, but a local prost.i.tute that was known to work the streets of the Tenderloin only served to spurn me on that much harder. Rob said it was a coincidence. Freddie said it was a warning. When I told Sister Margaret of my plan to go on television, offering a reward for information leading to the rescue of my daughter, she, like everyone else, laughed, thinking I was joking. When I told her that KTVU had agreed to have Ross McGowan sit down with me for an interview, her eyes flashed a look of apprehension. But as Sister herself said a long time ago, this is a war.

Suddenly, the young woman who has been kneeling below the camera in front of the news anchors holds her hand up in the air, her fingers swiping the air, three, two, one, and it's as if a vacuum locked seal opens inside the studio. The two anchors sit back in their chairs. The woman slouches down, bending over to attend some apparent problem with her shoe. The light above the double doors in front of us shuts off. Donnie looks at me and smiles.

"Commercial break," he says. Opening the door, he leads me into the studio. "Let's get on set," he says.

I am instantly surrounded by interns and personnel, giving direction; sit this way, look that way, but above all, just be natural. In the middle of it all, the the Ross McGowan comes onto the set and sits down opposite me. He is taller than he looks on TV. He smiles at me with that famous handsome grin, as one of the interns hands him a sheaf of papers, whispering quietly into his ear. Philip, the makeup artist is at Ross McGowan's other side, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. Ross McGowan comes onto the set and sits down opposite me. He is taller than he looks on TV. He smiles at me with that famous handsome grin, as one of the interns hands him a sheaf of papers, whispering quietly into his ear. Philip, the makeup artist is at Ross McGowan's other side, dabbing his forehead with a cloth.

And then we're on the air.

Ross McGowan looks into the camera, his face suddenly serious.

"Teenage prost.i.tution," he says. "Is it common? Rare?" He turns in his chair and faces me. "We're here this morning with Margot Skinner. Her daughter, Robyn, at first cla.s.sified as a teenage runaway by the police, is now officially listed as 'endangered missing' by the authorities. After learning that her daughter Robyn was, in fact, living on the streets in the Tenderloin district in San Francisco, living as a prost.i.tute, Margot herself made frequent visits to the City searching for the whereabouts of her daughter. She also enlisted the aid of a private investigator. And although her daughter was returned home, just weeks later, she ran away again, back to her pimp. Now, Mrs. Skinner, before we begin talking specifically about Robyn, can you tell us, from your experience, isn't teenage prost.i.tution the exception rather than the rule?"

There is no time for fear or hesitation. I dive in.

"Actually, teenagers being sold for s.e.x are becoming more and more common."

"How so?" Ross asks.

"Back in the nineties, when the DEA began cracking down on the drug problem, cutting the flow of cocaine and heroin into the United States, traffickers began looking for another source of lucrative income. Drug dealers turned themselves into pimps, because unlike a drug that is bought and sold once, a teenage prost.i.tute can be sold over and over again; she becomes an unending stream of revenue. And because the laws against prost.i.tution are aimed at the prost.i.tute herself, these teenage girls are targeted as criminals instead of the victims that they really are. The girls get arrested and their pimps go free."

"In terms of numbers, are we talking about dozens of girls, hundreds, thousands?"

"Conservative estimates today are that there are a quarter of a million teenage girls are being prost.i.tuted in the United States alone. That doesn't even begin to address the already huge issue of children being s.e.xually exploited in places like Amsterdam and the Philippines."

Ross looks momentarily sick to his stomach. "This is an epidemic," he says.

"Yes," I reply. "With the advertising industry continuing its steady promotion of the s.e.xualization of our children, and the media becoming more and more casual about p.o.r.nography, teenage prost.i.tution has become a twenty-first century plague."

"Now, your daughter, Robyn you believe is under the control of a pimp?"

"Yes, I do."

Ross holds up a copy of the flyer of BLU BOY that I posted all over the Tenderloin district.

"This is the man that you allege has control of your daughter?"

"Yes."

"And you posted these flyers in San Francisco?"

"Yes I did."

"And what was the result?" Ross asks.

"Within forty-eight hours of my posting the flyer, I was notified by S.F.P.D. that a young woman, probably a teenager had been found beaten to death in the City."

"But it was not Robyn?"

"Thank G.o.d, no."

"And you wanted to come on television this morning and give Antonio Pena a message; is that right?"

My heart lashes my chest. My mouth is dry as gypsum. The camera nearest me glides towards me with the stealth of a hungry panther. I face it head on.

"Antonio Pena, BLU BOY, whatever you call yourself, I want you to know that I will rescue my daughter away from you. No matter what it takes to do so. In conjunction with Crime Stoppers, I am now offering a fifty thousand dollar reward to anyone who can give me information leading to the safe rescue of my daughter, Robyn Skinner. Regardless of whether anyone comes forward or not, no matter if it takes me the rest of my life, I will will rescue my daughter." rescue my daughter."

Ross lets out a nervous laugh.

"I think it prudent to mention that we are not advocating vigilantism here, folks."

He mumbles something about law enforcement and notifying the proper authorities. But I am not listening; instead I sit back and breathe out a sigh of release. It is of no concern to me what Ross McGowan says; the gauntlet has been thrown. I will hunt BLU BOY down like the dog that he is. And when I find him, I find Robyn.

November 20, 2002.

"I'm really glad you called," I say into my cell phone.

It is Freddie; he is about to board an airplane to visit his mother, who lives in Dallas, for the Thanksgiving holiday.

"You doing anything special?" he asks.

"No," I say. "Rob's still asleep but he told me that holidays are ground zero for relapses and that he's got to spend all four days in meetings to protect his sobriety." I sigh. I don't get into the fact that I didn't even bother to buy a turkey this year. There just didn't seem to be any point.

"You sound lonely," he says, sympathy in his voice.

"I miss Robyn," I say. "I really thought that going on TV and offering a reward would lead to something."

"You don't know that it won't," he says. "Sometimes it takes people a while to work up their courage to do the right thing."

"I guess," I say, peering out the kitchen window at a pallid sky.

"They're getting ready to board now; I have to go."

"Have a great holiday," I say, envious of his capability to hop on a plane and leave his real life behind.

"I'll call you when I get back into town next week," he says.

We say goodbye and then I toss the cell onto the kitchen counter. It skids across the surface, stopping under a week's worth of mail that I still need to sort. Already it's nearing noon and I haven't gotten my shower. I sough out a breath of discontent, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and grab my cup of coffee, preparing to head to the bathroom when I hear pounding on the front door. I can't imagine who on earth it could be. I set my coffee cup back down and walk to the living room.

Staring through the peephole I see a face that can only mean trouble. I open the front door.

"Jenny," I say of Robyn's troublemaking friend. A look of hysterical panic is in her eye.

"You've got to help her," she says, her voice wild. Her eyes fill with tears.

Terror instantly invades my body.

"What's wrong?" I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. "Is Robyn okay?"

"He said something about you having to choose. He's never been like this before," she says.

"Who?" I demand.

"He always said he was our friend and that he would take care of us! But now-"

"Choose what? What are you talking about?"

Jenny is openly crying now.

I seize her by the forearms.

"Jenny!" I yell. "Get a hold of yourself! Now tell me what is going on!"

She wrenches free.

"It's Pena! He says you got one hour and then he's gonna kill her if you don't choose. I don't know what he's talking about." She digs into one of the front pockets in her jeans. "I wrote it down. This is where she is. He wants you to go there." She hands me the note.

On a sc.r.a.p of paper is an address in the City. From the street name I recognize the address: Robyn is in the Tenderloin.

"He says if you call the cops he'll kill her."

In my mind I'm already calculating how long it will take to drive to San Francisco. One hour is cutting it very close. Immediately I am thinking about whether or not to try to reach Rob at the Alano Club. There's no time. I'll leave him a note.

"I have to go," I say, leaving Jenny standing at the front door.

In the bedroom I survey the floor for clothing. I bounce out of my pajamas and into the nearest pair of pants I can find. I jerk an old sweatshirt over my head and slip on a pair of nearby flip-flops.

I grab my purse and fly out the door.

The sky in the City is a cadaverous grey. The air, frigid.

I ease the Corsica onto Sacramento Street. I look at the map again. "Okay, Polk should be coming up after Franklin," I say to myself.

Apartment buildings are sandwiched together one after the other with an occasional market or liquor store squeezed in between. Traffic is light because of the Thanksgiving holiday.

Sure enough, I see Polk Street and flip the turn indicator on just as I make the right turn. I reread the sc.r.a.p of paper that Jenny gave me again. "It's gotta be right here," I say under my breath.

Across the street, on the corner of Sacramento and Polk stands a boarded up storefront covered in black soot. On the top is a dingy sign half obscured by carbon smudges; I can make out the name Bob's. Bob's. A recent fire has obviously nearly destroyed the building. From the looks of it, A recent fire has obviously nearly destroyed the building. From the looks of it, Bob's Bob's was probably a corner grocery market. I can't make out the address. But just past the burnt out hull of a building, I see it. The blue BMW, front license plate advertising its owner: BLU BOY. was probably a corner grocery market. I can't make out the address. But just past the burnt out hull of a building, I see it. The blue BMW, front license plate advertising its owner: BLU BOY.

I lurch the car to a stop and yank the gearshift into park. Cars are parked up and down both sides of the street. To h.e.l.l with wasting time trying to find a parking s.p.a.ce. People can drive around the Corsica.

I hop out of the car and sling my purse strap over my shoulder.

I look at my watch; fifty eight minutes have elapsed since Jenny delivered her message.

Although the storefront has been boarded up, near where the brick and what used to be a large gla.s.s window meet, about waist high, I catch sight of a small opening where one of the wood planks stops short. It looks barely big enough for a cat to get through. I'm not sure I can squeeze through, but I'm d.a.m.n sure going to try. I stick one leg into the opening, bending nearly in half, as I wedge myself into the narrow fissure. I feel like a contortionist, jamming my body into the small gap. I have to stuff myself rear end first and then at last, the one foot on the inside finds solid ground. Turning sideways, I hop backwards inch by inch, as first one shoulder and then the other shoulder presses through the breach, wringing my flesh as I drive myself through to the inside of the burned out store.

Inside, I am immediately overcome by the acrid, sour stench of burnt plastics and wood; a miasma of toxic stink. It is pitch black inside, save only for narrow glimmers of light that bleed in between the planks of wood on the outside of the building. I know I don't have a flashlight in my purse, but my hand drops inside anyway, my fingers searching for their prize: the Colt.

"Robyn?" I whisper. I listen for a moment, but don't hear anything.

I take one tentative step forward. My foot lands on something already broken. The crunch of the gla.s.s m.u.f.fled beneath my shoe. As my eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, I can now make out frameworks of shelving units that used to hold food. Nearly all of them have been destroyed by fire. The floor is littered with burnt boxes of cereals and crackers and dented, half burnt cans. Most of the structures look more like skeletons of shelves than actual shelving.

I cross the floor, careful to avoid as much debris as I can. I step over a half burned bottle of Heinz catsup as the odor of burnt wood and catsup and pickles invade my nostrils.

At the far end of the store, I catch sight of a long ma.s.s of twisted, melted steel, and realize those must have been shopping carts. Beyond me, ahead by about ten yards, I hear a sudden noise dart across the floor and realize that I'm not the only one making my way through the charred groceries. The hairs on the back of my neck shoot up and a shiver of repulsion flies across my skin as I try to dispel the image of rats scuttling around near me.

Towards the very back of the store, I see a faint outline of a doorway. As I approach, I glimpse a door, ajar, outlined by a diffuse light on the other side. My heart thuds wildly in my chest as I draw near to the door. My mouth is dry as ashes and the stench of the burnt and rotting food causes waves of nausea to roll through my body. I take another cautious step towards the door. I am near enough now that I can reach out and touch it. But before I can raise my hand I hear a sound. A whimper. I bolt through the door. What I see causes me to freeze in shock.

The room is small, perhaps what used to be an office or small break room for the employees of the store. On the left wall, a door leading outside a back alley stands open, letting in light. In the shadows I see a long table and bench lie on their sides, charred and twisted from the fire. In the center of the room two chairs set back to back a foot apart from each other. Two girls tied and gagged are in the chairs; both looking at me, abject terror fills their eyes. Robyn sits in the chair on the right and Chevy is on the left.

"Oh my G.o.d," I murmur. "It's okay girls, it's going to be okay."

I make a move towards them, but from the darkness he emerges. BLU BOY saunters towards the girls, a gun in each of his hands. He gives me a malevolent grin.

"Jou think jou are so smart," he says. "Jou go on TV, think you do something big." He waves both guns around in the air. "But you see?" he says, aiming a gun at each girl's head. "I am the one that do something big."