Uptown Thief

by Aya De León

  By 10 a.m. the morning after she’d met Dulce, she had already walked the girl downstairs to an intake appointment, rushed across town with cash for the van lease payment, and was now sitting in her clinic office waiting for a new client.

  She kissed her index finger and touched it to the photo of herself and her sister that sat on the desk. For luck. The photo was taken five years before at the airport, just before Cristina left for medical school in Cuba. The two of them were squeezed close, smiling at the camera but both had cheeks wet with tears. That was the last time Marisol had cried.

  The sisters had similar faces, but Marisol was curvy and dark while Cristina was slender and fair. They had the do-they-or-don’t-they likeness of sisters with different fathers. Marisol had never met her dad, who—according to her grandmother—had a temper. She vaguely recalled Cristina’s father: a fair-haired charmer who gave Marisol candy when she was little. Apparently, he liked to spread his charms around.

  Her mother had died over twenty years ago, when she was in middle school. Afterward, Marisol had pestered her grandmother for information about both dads. Her grandmother had given her euphemisms and minor tidbits of information appropriate for an eleven-year-old: Cristina’s father was a fantastic cook. Marisol’s father was a great merengue dancer. Merengue? Later, she wondered whether her father was Dominican.

  Cristina left for Cuba with a promise to work at the clinic after medical school. Marisol promised there would be a clinic to come back to.

  As Marisol’s watch signaled the hour, the light bulb above her desk blew out. She cursed and scrambled for the legit bulbs in the cabinet. She had kicked off her heels and was on the desk replacing the light when her assistant buzzed.

  “Stall him for a minute, Serena.”

  When the client came in, Marisol was sitting at her perfectly illuminated desk, brushing a dust smudge from her slacks.

  The client was a short white guy with glasses and an upscale suit. He represented Thug Woofer, the notorious gangsta rapper from South Carolina who needed adult entertainment at an engagement party. The idea of matrimony didn’t match Woof’s bad boy image. He and his entourage had cut a path up to New York, leaving a trail of DUIs and trashed hotel rooms. Thug Woofer had moved into the penthouse of a midtown apartment building to record his next album.

  Marisol tilted back and studied her visitor. People like him were the reason she’d had the office done in mahogany and black leather. Marisol could have sat in a folding chair at a card table with piles of paper all around her and an old laptop. But for clients like this one, she’d hustled up designer leather furniture, wood panel walls, and a massive wooden desk. Southern exposure brought warm indirect light into the room and sustained several plants. Marisol loved green things at work—plants and money.

  She dressed to match the office. Dark suits and tailored blouses.

  She frowned down at her notes from their phone call.

  “Thug Woofer is getting engaged?” Marisol asked.

  “His brother,” the manager said. “This is just a small party. Woof, his brother, and cousin. The bachelor party will be much bigger—at least twenty girls. My friend with the Yankees said you could handle it no problem.”

  “No problem,” Marisol said. “But we have rules. You and I agree ahead of time on the sex acts. I’ve seen your boy’s videos. No one’s gonna be putting any of my girls in the trunk of a car. There are a million assholes in this city who cater to any twisted motherfucker. Go find one of them.”

  “So if my guys want something freaky, your girls are out the door?”

  “Anything freaky we don’t agree to ahead of time,” Marisol said.

  “What about spontaneity?”

  “When a contractor remodels your bathroom, you don’t ask him to cook you lasagna. These girls are professionals. We negotiate up front on price, terms, and services. No surprises.”

  “This is bullshit. I can get more bang for my buck at Vixela’s.”

  “Vixela’s strip club downtown?” Marisol scoffed. “You want your guys to get caught screwing minors?”

  “We’re buying hookers,” the manager said. “Not exactly legal, anyway. I want my guys satisfied. This isn’t a charity event.”

  “No?” Marisol asked, raising an eyebrow. “Then your Yankees guy didn’t mention our biggest perk?”

  “I don’t see any perks,” the manager said. “Sounds like three cranky-ass girls give my guys some listless hand jobs.”

  “No, honey,” Marisol said. “Three lingerie-model types. Gorgeous and enthusiastic, who will strip, provide private entertainment for each of the three guys, and act like their dream in life is to perform whatever acts we agree upon in this office. Ten thousand dollars for the package. And—” Marisol paused and leaned back in her chair. “Every penny will be tax-deductible.”

  “What?” The manager blinked behind his glasses.

  “Your credit card statement will include a donation to the María de la Vega Health Clinic. Our workers will be thanking your guys personally for supporting women’s health care.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me.” The manager’s mouth fell into an open grin.

  “You want the write-off, you keep your guys in line.” She showed him where to sign the donation paperwork.

  “And our gala fund-raiser is tomorrow.” She handed him an invitation. “In case you or Thug Woofer would like to join us.”

  * * *

  Marisol liked potential clients to see what the funds were supporting, so she walked the manager out through the clinic lobby. More than a dozen young women, mostly black and Latina, lounged around on couches. On the walls behind them, images of attractive, confident young women from their demographic encouraged them to:

  Use condoms . . . every time.

  Watch your drink.

  Recognize the signs of an abusive relationship.

  In the background, a bass line thumped from the speakers of a wide-screen TV playing rap videos. In an armchair, one young woman nodded her head to the beat while gluing in a weave for a girl who sat between her knees. The game table held four domino players and a second circle of observers talking trash.

  “Who’s your friend, Marisol?” Nalissa asked, gesturing to Thug Woofer’s manager from the domino table.

  “Business associate,” Marisol said.

  “If she ain’t your friend, I’m tryna be your friend,” Nalissa said.

  “I like that suit,” another girl said. “You can have more than one friend.”

  The manager blushed as Marisol walked him past the reception desk and a framed movie poster for Live Nude Girls, Unite! featuring three comic book hero–styled women, half-naked, with a “Strippers Union” picket sign and a fist in the air.

  Marisol opened the front door and shook the manager’s hand.

  She tilted her head subtly, indicating the young women in the lobby. “If you ever wanted to become a client yourself, we have packages in a wide range of price points.”

  “Me?” The manager’s blush deepened.

  “Think about it.” Marisol gave him a warm handshake. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

  Marisol closed the door as a young woman in a bright pink halter top slammed her final domino down on the table. “Capicú, motherfuckers!” she crowed as the watchers erupted in a loud wail that rang throughout the lobby. The other players grudgingly tossed in their leftover tiles and the winner counted the points.

  As Marisol walked back across the lobby, Nalissa fell into step next to her. “I’m on your drop-in list next week,” she said. “But I can’t wait to tell you some of my business ideas—”

  “Nalissa, you can’t charm me like a client,” Marisol said. “By looking sexy and eager. You wanna talk business, but you haven’t signed up for a single entrepreneurship class here at the clinic?”

  “I’m no good at school.”

  “This ain’t school, mami. It’s community education.”

  “I’ll sign up right now,”
Nalissa said, and headed to the reception desk.

  The sound of a police siren drew Marisol’s eye to the TV screen. A gold-toothed rapper threw money out of a limo as a cop chased him down the streets.

  Marisol grabbed the remote. “I’m putting the money management video back on.”

  The women’s voices rose in protest.

  “But it’s Thug Woofer!” someone said.

  “I’d like to be the hoe in the back of his limo,” one girl at the domino table said.

  “Not if he was throwing out the money,” said Nalissa.

  “You need to stop trying to be the hoe in the video and be the hoe making the video,” Marisol said. “And aren’t you all late for entrepreneurship training?”

  “Oh shit!” one of the girls said, checking the time on her phone. They all grabbed purses and coats and rushed for the stairs. Nalissa fell in with the group.

  “Sorry, Nalissa, this session has already started,” Marisol said.

  “Please, I’m ready to learn,” she said. “And the next session is full.”

  “Tell her I said to take you in on probation,” Marisol said. “If you’re not caught up by next week, you’re out.”

  “Gracias!” Nalissa said, and disappeared into the stairwell.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Marisol was in the community room, teaching her seminar, “The Happy, Healthy Hoe.” January sunlight filtered into the room.

  “Everybody’s in this business for the same reason,” Marisol said to the thirty or so young women. “You’re broke, you got no real marketable skills, but guys will pay to screw you.”

  She walked over to a young woman texting and raised an eyebrow. The girl put the phone away. “But this is a burnout profession,” Marisol went on. “If you don’t plan your future, you’ll end up broke, with no marketable skills, and those same guys won’t still wanna screw you, or won’t wanna pay much.”

  The young women laughed. Every folding chair in the room was full, and a few of the girls sat on the floor. Against the wall were stacks of foldaway cots and a pile of sleeping bags that came out at night when the room became a temporary shelter.

  “So be smart,” Marisol went on. “Some countries have government-sponsored retirement plans for their sex workers. Not the U.S.”

  A wide-eyed Nalissa stuck her head in the door.

  “Entrepreneurship’s not until tomorrow—”

  “He’s got a gun!” Nalissa said. Her arm waved wildly toward the street. “Crazy motherfucker outside the clinic with a gun!”

  Chapter 6

  Marisol jumped up and ran down the stairs to the front door. Her hand reached involuntarily for her locket.

  Eva stood frozen in the middle of the lobby. The receptionist and several women stood huddled behind the front desk. They watched the street through the two-way mirrored glass of the street door.

  “Dulce, I know you’re in there! Bitch, I’m a kill you if you don’t come out right now,” a thugged-out Latino yelled from the sidewalk. He wore oversized shades and a cap pulled low over his face, a large-caliber gun dangling from his right hand.

  Jerry. Marisol had a feeling of déjà vu. As if Dulce had not only described Jerry, but also shown her a picture.

  Marisol texted Jody for backup, but she might be anywhere in the city.

  The thirty or so girls who had come down behind Marisol stayed hunched in a knot by the stairwell at the back of the room.

  Eva rushed to the reception desk. “I’m calling NYPD.”

  “No cops!” Marisol said. “We got girls in here with warrants or no immigration papers.”

  “He has a goddamn cannon in his hand, Marisol,” Eva said. “I don’t like police, either, but it’s better than getting shot.”

  “Only a psychopath would shoot us in broad daylight with witnesses,” Marisol said.

  “What about that guy doesn’t say psychopath to you?” Eva asked.

  Jerry hulked back and forth like a caged jungle cat.

  At the corner, he had parked his tricked-out Hummer across two lanes of Avenue C traffic. Cars honked, and clusters of passersby rubbernecked.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Jerry yelled, turning to the motorists.

  Marisol peered down the street and counted five heads in the Hummer: three female, two male.

  “He’s not gonna kill us,” Marisol said. “This is for show. I’m going out.”

  “Are you nuts?” Eva asked.

  “It’s just like that dad at the Chelsea clinic,” Marisol said.

  “That guy only had a hatchet,” Eva said.

  “Motherfuckers don’t just get to intimidate women in our clinic.” Marisol put a hand on the door. “I’m going with or without you.” She pushed the door open a crack. A gust of wind blew in, and Jerry swiveled in her direction.

  She stepped out in the street without a backward glance.

  Eva grabbed her cane and stepped out the door, her limp more pronounced than usual. Although she wasn’t a brawler like Jody, Eva had a fierceness on which Marisol had come to rely. Not only had Eva survived polio, but her parents had survived the Holocaust as children. Eva wasn’t looking for a fight, but she was prepared to survive one.

  Marisol felt the adrenaline surging through her. Where her shoulder touched Eva’s she could feel the other woman trembling slightly.

  She and Eva advanced. Underneath Eva’s plus-size suit, she was solid. Still, the pimp’s tall, broad-shouldered, and heavy frame dwarfed them both. Marisol was a head shorter than him and probably half his weight.

  They walked into the middle of the street. “Can we help you?” Marisol asked.

  “You bitches better send Dulce out right now.” His scowling expression had etched deep, taut lines into his face. His rugged skin contrasted strangely with the oversized cartoon characters on his designer jeans outfit.

  This was how Marisol had always imagined her uncle showing up. If she had ever called the cops or social services and had gotten away from him. Somehow he’d find her. Come after her. All the more outraged for her defiance. She had to bite back the memory.

  “Dulce came in several days ago with two black eyes, a dislocated elbow, three broken ribs, and a fractured femur,” Marisol said with a steely calm she didn’t feel. She bluffed about the ribs—they were only bruised. “She can barely walk.”

  “So fucking what? Bitch deserved it.”

  Marisol remembered the garden of bruises on Dulce’s body in the tub. She narrowed her eyes. “She was practically unconscious when we brought her in. For medical reasons, we can’t send her out. When she’s healed up, she can decide for herself whether or not she wants to return to working with you.”

  “Bullshit. I tell Dulce what she wants.” The gun rested at his thigh. He stepped closer to Marisol and looked as if he might hit her with his other hand. Marisol’s body clenched.

  Eva stepped forward as if to break it up, when they all heard a police siren coming up the block in the opposite direction. The pimp stepped back and slid the gun into the waistband of his jeans, pulling his baggy shirt down over it.

  The cruiser pulled up and two cops got out. One stepped up to the Hummer, and the other approached the altercation on the sidewalk.

  “What’s going on?” the cop asked.

  “My friend just came to say hello,” Marisol said. “But he didn’t park very well.”

  “If he doesn’t leave, we’ll tow his oversized vehicle.”

  “I’ll be back,” Jerry said, stalking to his car.

  As she watched him walk away, there was something familiar in his voice, his walk, but she couldn’t place it. He was unforgettably imposing. She would have remembered meeting him.

  “You know that’s Jerry Rios, right?” the cop asked when Jerry was out of earshot. “Was he looking for a girl in the clinic? Do you want to lodge a complaint? We can get him for disturbing the peace.”

  “No thanks,” Marisol said. “We’ve got this under control.”

  The
cop rolled his eyes. “Just don’t go complaining when he beats the girl to death.”

  “Let’s say I did cooperate,” Marisol said. “You couldn’t lock him up for long. Where would you be when he comes back even more pissed off at us for getting him arrested?”

  He didn’t have an answer to that.

  She sucked her teeth and went to catch up with Eva in the clinic.

  “Has he ever come by before?” Marisol asked after closing the door behind her.

  Eva shook her head. “Who could forget a guy like that?” she asked. “I thought I was gonna piss my pants.”

  “I fucking hate pimps,” Marisol said.

  “You’re shaking,” Eva said.

  “We need extra security,” Marisol said. “For tomorrow while the staff is at the fund-raiser.”

  “Can we afford it?” Eva asked.

  “I’ll make the money happen somehow.”

  * * *

  That evening, on the subway, Marisol held her dry cleaning in front of her body, like a shield. A pair of women with fashionably torn clothes pressed against her in the uptown train. The seats had been filled since the first Manhattan stop near Wall Street. Two men in expensive suits sat to the right of her. Across from them was a browner cluster of passengers who had been on the train since Queens and Brooklyn.