The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,62

free with my teeth. I adhere the top of the flyer to the lamppost and then repeat the process with the bottom of the flyer. I stand back a moment to admire my handiwork. The flyer features a 5 X 7 photograph of Antonio Peña’s mug shot the last time he was arrested a little less than a year ago. In it, he is not the pseudo-handsome, swarthy young man in a smart three piece suit sitting in his aqua BMW, the way I first saw him just three short months ago. The photograph reveals bloodshot eyes and disarranged hair, which gives him a faintly clownish look. Below the photo is information linking Peña with Robyn and offering a reward for anyone who can provide me with a bonafide tip leading me to my daughter, along with a telephone number: my newly acquired cell phone.

From the doorway of the Maryland Market the clerk tosses me a doubtful look. I ignore her and cross Turk Street. Sister Margaret dutifully follows behind me with an armful of flyers. Another corner market, another lamppost.

“If you feel so fine, why are you still popping Rolaids like they were candy?” Sister Margaret inquires.

I give her a pointed look. “Nerves,” I reply.

“Think a visit to the doctor surely wouldn’t hurt,” she says. “From the standpoint of . . .” her voice trails off.

I stretch out my palm in her direction as I swallow down the smoldering burn in my stomach. “Flyer,” is all I say.

She peels a copy from her stack and hands it over saying, “Speaking of, how on earth did you manage to get BLU BOY’s mug shot?” she asks.

“Bart Strong, the P.I. I hired back in August.”

Sister Margaret raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

“Technically, mug shots are public domain, but they can be hard to get. Bart has friends in high places,” I say and smile.

Sister Margaret’s face is pensive.

“You should be careful,” she says.

“He killed our cat, Pickles,” I say.

“All the more reason to be careful,” she counters.

“But you should have heard him on the phone,” I counter. “His voice was smug with satisfaction. I could have strangled him right then and there.”

“Vigilante justice is no justice,” Sister Margaret says.

“Believe me, I am no vigilante,” I say, relieved that the little nun knows nothing about the .22 Colt nestled in my purse. I pause a moment and turn, greeting those fierce gray eyes. “But I am going to get my daughter back. No matter what.”

We continue our campaign, down Turk Street, up Leavenworth, crossing Geary, then turning right down Hyde, until all the lampposts or telephone poles on all major streets throughout the Tenderloin have been plastered with BLY BOY’s mug shot.

As we make our way back to my car, I am arrested by the shouting riot of oranges and reds of the leaves of the trees, swelling hugely against San Francisco’s ash colored sky. The beauty of nature, a dichotomy against the ugliness of the drug addiction and prostitution of this neighborhood. I inhale involuntarily, thinking of past autumns from childhood; the smell of the falling leaves giving way to images of Petra and I laughing and kicking our way through piles of leaves that our Father had diligently raked. But instead of the lusty and potent earthy aroma of autumn here in the Tenderloin, I am met with the pervading stink of rotting garbage braided with the stench of old vomit.

I drive Sister Margaret back to the convent, easing the old Corsica to the curb.

Her fingers are on the door handle, but she doesn’t open the door.

“You know you’re invited,” she says.

“Invited?” I ask.

“It’s All Saint’s Day. There will be a Mass. Tonight at seven. The choir is going to sing the full Litany of the Saints; it’s very beautiful.”

“We’ll see,” I say.

“That means no,” she says, giving me a frown.

“It’s a long way to drive.”

“I could pick you up,” she offers. “In that deathtrap of yours?” I say with a laugh. “No thanks.”

“You’d really love it,” she persists.

“I promise, Sister, I’ll think about it,” I say, a little exasperated.

“I’m picking up Chevy. She says she’s even thinking of converting.”

“Is she doing well?” I ask.

“God willing and the creek don’t rise; she’s determined to get off the streets. She’s starting to see that prostituting for food and shelter and clothing ends up being nothing more than survival sex. She is starting to see that there is more out there to life.”

I smile. I am genuinely glad for Chevy. She is