and the answering machine. A red digital light flashes before me. I punch the playback button and wait, my heart throbbing with desire.
The first two are indeed crank calls. The third is from Robyn’s friend, Jenny. My mouth is tinder dry as I await her message.
“Hi.” Jenny’s voice is tentative. “It’s me, Jenny. I um, saw the thing on TV,” she says. Her voice is a whisper, as if she doesn’t want anyone to know what she’s saying. “Um, I feel really bad, you know? But I um, know where Robyn is.”
* * *
“This is Rob.” He’s working a late shift to pick up some extra money.
“Rob, it’s me. Jenny said that Robyn’s in San Francisco,” I say into the cordless, which is cradled between my ear and shoulder.
“San Francisco?” Rob’s voice rattles with disbelief. “What the hell’s she doing in San Francisco?”
“I don’t know,” I reply defensively. “All Jenny would say is that Robyn was ‘partying in frisco’.”
As I talk I am bolting through the house, finding a jacket, gathering my purse, ferreting through its contents for my keys.
“But I’m going to find out.” I say.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m driving to San Francisco,” I say.
“When?” Rob asks.
“Now.”
“Now? You’re crazy; it’s almost dark. You don’t even know the city.”
“I found a map. Remember that time we were going to go to Fisherman’s Wharf but then you got sick?” I ask, and then continue on, not waiting for him to answer. “Well I found that map of the city we bought.”
“Margot, don’t,” he warns. “Call the cops; let them handle it.”
“I already did. They told me they’d fax Robyn’s picture to S.F.P.D. and put out a BOLO.”
“A BOLO?” Rob asks.
“It means be on the look out,” I say.
“And?”
“And, that’s it. That’s all they’ll do.” I huff into the phone.
“What about Jenny’s parents?” Rob asks.
“I spoke with Jenny’s mother. She said she has no knowledge of where Robyn could be. Anyway, Jenny told me.”
“Don’t,” Rob warns.
I know he hears the hopefulness in my voice. His ‘don’t’ is as much for the action I am about to take as it is for my emotion.
“You’re not going to stop me.” I reach the door, yanking it open with my one free hand.
“Margot—”
I punch the ‘end’ button and toss the phone on the couch, sprinting for the car, slamming the front door behind me.
The City is cold. It is just after seven and most of the commuters have gone home for the day. Although traffic on the bridge coming into San Francisco was relatively light, cars seem to jumble up as I stagger along Fremont Street making my way left onto Market. The electric Muni buses dominate the landscape, rushing by with authority. I scan the streets looking for any sight of Robyn. The cold, windy air floods the car and I’m forced to roll up the window, sneaking alternate peeks at the streets and my map, which is difficult to read in the dusky evening. I don’t know, really, what I am looking for; I see a spot on the map labeled Union Square and that seems as good a place as any to start.
But I make a wrong turn and then another one and suddenly, the city streets seem too narrow; the cars drive by too fast and some just park in the road for no reason at all. I am hot, sweating now, from nervousness. I catch the name of a street, Hayes, and a small sign that says: City Hall with an arrow angled towards the left. It is almost dark now and in my indecision about where to go I stop completely. The blare of an angry horn sounds behind me. I look in my rear view mirror to see the bead of sharp, bright lights. I speed up switching on my right turn indicator only to see that at the end of the block, the street ahead is one way the other way. Another halting block and traffic thins a bit. I look around and see several adult stores sandwiched together. A man whose clothing is nearly black with filth stumbles along the sidewalk. His hair is disheveled and as I drive past, he leers in my direction and I see that most of his teeth are missing. A shiver of disgust washes over my skin. I avert my eyes and turn quickly, noting the street: Turk. It is then I see her.
Up ahead a young girl. She is dressed in typical hooker garb. High heels and a