Uptown Thief

by Aya De León

  A sentimental, old school salsa song came on the radio, and she found herself filled with thoughts of Raul, even with the taste of Vladimir’s good-bye kiss still on her lips.

  Once the car crossed into the Lower East Side, her senses heightened. When they pulled up to the curb of the clinic, everything looked okay. It was just after 9 p.m. The street was relatively quiet. No new graffiti. Nothing on fire. She planned to stop by the office to pick up her mail.

  In the pile was an article Serena had clipped with the headline, “Mexican Women’s Organization Gets Huge Anonymous Donation.” It was dated seven weeks before. She read it as she climbed the stairs, her mouth splitting into a grin.

  . . . the grassroots organization in Mexico of former sex trafficking victims helping current victims, has reported receiving their first U.S. donation—$250,000 in cash from an anonymous source. The organization’s founder and director says the funds will be used to....

  Marisol knew something was wrong the moment she walked into the outer office of the fourth floor. She smelled a slight odor of cigarettes. Pulling her keys out of the door, she turned around and headed back into the hallway.

  She’d almost reached the stairs when Jerry yelled after her.

  “I’ve got your little bitch assistant.”

  Marisol froze at the sound of his voice, that sneering, swaggering arrogance.

  “If you’re not here in thirty seconds, I’ll blow her ugly head off,” his voice echoed down the quiet hall.

  Marisol walked back toward the inner office—her office—not feeling the carpet under her feet. Her numb fingers fished the panic key ring out of the pocket inside her purse.

  Jerry had a gun to Serena’s head. Desk papers had been thrown around, file cabinets emptied onto the floor. Plants dumped out, their dirt sifted through. Cabinet doors stood open with papers spilling out. Several cigarette butts were strewn across an award plaque that lay atop the chaos on her desk. There were burn marks in the surface of both the desk and the plaque.

  “Welcome home,” Jerry said.

  Serena seemed tinier than ever.

  “Did he hurt you?” Marisol asked. “Touch you?”

  “Please, bitch.” Jerry sneered. “I got more pussy than I know what to do with. I don’t need this dog here.”

  Marisol’s heart banged against her ribs. With her hand still buried in her purse, she tried to remember Eva’s words that day in her office.

  “You know how it works,” Eva had said. “Left button siren, right button signal.”

  Marisol gripped the key ring and pressed the signal button.

  “I heard some bitch gave all my girls their passports.”

  Marisol slowly slid her hand from her purse.

  “Dulce called me just before she left town,” Jerry said. “Said she was going to Cuba and wanted to say good-bye. See? I told you they were my girls!” He thumped himself on the chest.

  Marisol stayed quiet.

  “I ask who’s taking her, and she wouldn’t fucking tell me!” he yelled, and then his voice lightened. “But I figured it out. She left the same day you left.”

  He slammed his free hand against the arm of the couch.

  “I put it together,” he growled. “You got some motherfuckers to break in my place and steal my shit and gave my bitches their passports so they could go back to their countries, where they’ll learn that their pussy is worth a lot less.” Spit had gathered in the corners of his mouth. “You think you did them a favor? I was the one doing them a favor!”

  He backhanded the vase on the end table, and Marisol watched it crash onto the carpet, spilling blue irises and water. Serena must have brought her fresh flowers.

  “I just had to have one of my new girls call here pretending to be some reporter,” Jerry said. “When will Miss I-Shit-Gold Marisol Rivera be coming back?” he mimicked a female voice. “Your girl on the phone just gave it up like a slut in the back of a car.”

  He slammed the fist of his free hand down on the desk. The cigarette butts jumped.

  “I came here to GET MY SHIT BACK,” Jerry said. “All of it. The cash and the guns.”

  “I told you, Jerry, we’re a service center,” Marisol spoke with a calm she didn’t feel. “Girls ask for something and we give it to them. Dulce wanted to join my trip to Cuba, so I said yes.” Marisol leaned back and crossed her arms. “Besides, I didn’t take your shit. But I know who did.”

  “Who?” he asked, advancing on her.

  “You won’t believe me,” she said.

  He jammed the gun into her temple. “You better fucking tell me.”

  Marisol didn’t even look at him. “Your brother set you up, Jerry.”

  “What?” Jerry asked, startled. The gun went slack in his hand. “He would never—”

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe it,” Marisol said. “Especially after he played the victim role so well. ‘I tried to stop them from robbing you,’” she mimicked in a singsong voice. “‘They hit me in the face.’” She laughed. “That was all part of the heist. Your brother knew just how to play you. You want your guns and money? Ask Jimmy.”

  A sharp furrowing of his brow let her know she had him unsettled.

  “Who knew when you would be out of the house? Who knew you had a four-way hookup with all your girls in Manhattan that night? He had plenty of time to figure out how to crack the safe. You wanna know how I know all this shit? His ass kept coming by here just to brag about how smart he is. How he had a plan to take you down.”

  Jerry’s face was tight, his eyes locked on Marisol. She went on, “Seems guys always need an audience to talk shit for. Jimmy’s no different. He couldn’t brag to any of your folks, because they would give him away, but he could come brag to me because I was supposed to be the bitch you wanted dead. I couldn’t show my face and tell you even if I wanted to. He gave me the passports just to fuck with you. He said it couldn’t be him to give the girls their freedom. He said after Dulce left, he got the idea. Make you lose everything.”

  He still had the gun next to her head. She was close enough to smell his cologne.

  “Jimmy came by a couple of days after you introduced him and the girls to us. Said he was gonna show you who the big brother was in your family. I said I didn’t want any part of it, but later when he handed me a bunch of passports, I gave them to the girls he sent my way. So now you know. Your brother set you up.”

  Jerry’s eyes were blazing, and his mouth twitched.

  Marisol tried to keep her eyes on Jerry as she spoke, staying calm.

  “And here you are, with a gun, in a room with two unarmed women. Are you the kind of guy who’s gonna take it out on us just because we’re here? Or are you the kind of guy who’s gonna go find the guy who fucked you and handle yours? Seems to me that pimps always take the easy fight. What the hell can we do? You’ll have to beat us both to death or shoot us all or rape us or whatever, because your shit’s not here, Big J! Your brother has it. You need to ask Lil J!”

  “Shut up!” Jerry said. “JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He raised his hand and smacked Marisol hard across the jaw.

  She opened the eye on the side of her face that wasn’t burning, and looked at him. He dialed his cell phone, while still holding the gun on them.

  Both women waited, barely breathing as they heard the faint, tinny ringing of the phone. Voice mail came on, a man speaking with music in the background.

  “Jimmy!” he yelled into the phone. “Where the fuck are you? Call me now!”

  He dialed a second number. “Chuco?” he demanded. “It’s Jerry. Where’s my motherfucking brother? . . . He’s not with you? . . . Well, find his ass and tell him to fucking call me right now!”

  Jerry hung up and stared at the phone. “I don’t know who’s fucking lying to me,” he said. “But my brother’s gonna call back in a minute, and I’m gonna get some answers.”

  As they sat tense, all eyes on the cell phone, the quiet was shattered by a knock. The three of them snapped th
eir attention from the phone to the door.

  “Marisol, are you back, honey?” Eva’s voice. Calm and ordinary. “I saw the light.”

  Marisol and Serena sat motionless on the couch.

  “Marisol?” Eva knocked again, as Jerry crossed the room to whisper in Marisol’s ear.

  “Tell her you’re fine,” he hissed.

  “I’m fine, Eva,” Marisol said in a cheerful voice. “Just getting some work done.”

  “I haven’t seen you in weeks, lovey,” Eva said. “At least come give me a hug.”

  “Get rid of her,” Jerry said.

  “Whatever you say,” Marisol whispered. “But she’ll be suspicious if I don’t go hug her.”

  “Stay where I can see you,” he said. “Plus I keep this little bitch as insurance.”

  “Just for a second,” Marisol said to Eva. “I wanna finish this up and get to bed.”

  Marisol opened the door, and stepped one foot out into the hall. She maneuvered herself to embrace Eva, and felt cold steel as Eva pressed a .44 automatic into her hands. Marisol stuck it down the back waistband of her jeans.

  “So good to see you,” Marisol said. “We’ll catch up tomorrow, okay? Good night.”

  Marisol stepped back into the room, and resumed her previous position on the couch. She sat with her palms up in her lap. The press of the gun against her spine beckoned to her as they listened to Eva’s footsteps retreating down the hallway.

  “My brother’s gonna call back,” Jerry said. “Then it’s either his ass or yours.”

  Marisol looked straight at Jerry. “Then I got nothing to worry about.”

  They waited. Serena sat motionless. Jerry held his phone but didn’t take his eyes or his gun off of them.

  A car went by blasting a cumbia, out on the street below. Marisol slid her hand down her thigh onto the couch. As the music faded, they heard the sharp burst of a woman laughing. Marisol moved her hand, millimeter by millimeter, back toward the gun.

  Jerry dialed again. All three of them heard the faint ringing, then an outgoing message. “Chuco!” he thundered. “Why you ain’t picking up the phone now, bitch?”

  He hung up and looked toward the street. “Those fucks better not have left.” Jerry stormed to the window. When he leaned over to look out, Marisol slid her hand back. She had just dislodged the .44 from her waistband when Jerry spun on her with his gun.

  “I said don’t fucking move!”

  “Sorry,” Marisol said, putting her hands back up.

  Marisol felt a cold object press against her hip. She realized that Serena, who was sitting with her feet tucked under her, was using her toes to nudge the gun forward.

  Her assistant stared straight ahead, but Marisol felt the achingly slow but insistent crawl of the gun along her thigh.

  “. . . the fuck is he?” Jerry muttered.

  Finally, the gun butt pressed against her knee. When Jerry looked at the window, Marisol glanced down. A sliver of the metal barrel was visible between the two women. Marisol scooted over to cover it.

  “I said don’t fucking move!” Jerry roared.

  A moment later, an aggressive techno ringtone startled all of them. When Jerry focused on the phone, Marisol snatched up the gun and fired off a single shot.

  The blast echoed in the office, as Jerry’s gun clattered onto the floor under the desk. A red stain blossomed on his shirt, and his right arm hung limp.

  The recoil burned Marisol’s side from her shoulder to her fingertips, as the tinny techno ringtone continued to fill the room.

  On Jerry’s face, shock gave way to fury, as he stood up and lumbered toward Marisol.

  She and Serena scrambled up over the back of the couch.

  Jerry loped across the rug, the stain spreading across his pale gray shirt.

  Marisol raised the gun and shot him again with a weak and shaking hand. The bullet hit his right shoulder. He jerked back, but kept coming, eyes hungry.

  The phone stopped ringing. Serena yanked the door open and ran out.

  Marisol leapt back and lifted the gun, grasping it with both hands to keep it steady. She pointed it at his head.

  Jerry let out a laugh that deteriorated into a cough. “Punk-ass little bitch,” he drawled, his eyes locked on Marisol. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m savoring the moment,” she said.

  “Bullshit,” he croaked. “You’re stalling. You don’t have the balls, stupid cocksucking bitch.”

  At first she thought maybe he remembered how they’d first met. But she searched his face for signs of more intimate recognition and found nothing.

  “I remember the first man I ever killed.” She clenched her hands to keep the gun from shaking. “My only regret is that I’ll never be sure he knew it was me.”

  “Marisol! Marisol!” Eva called from the hallway. “Are you okay, Marisol?”

  “Perfect.” Marisol laughed. “My name is the last word you’ll ever hear. Tattoo that on your ass, motherfucker.”

  With an animal yelp of rage, he heaved forward and reached for her with his one good hand.

  Marisol squeezed off a third shot, and the bullet hit near the center of his chest. As it punctured his lung, the big man deflated. He sagged forward onto the couch, face-first. His hat toppled off, falling at Marisol’s feet.

  “Eva!” Marisol yelled. “He’s down.” She gritted through the recoil pain and held the .44 on Jerry.

  Eva opened the door as she held her arm around Serena in the doorway. Serena was shaking and sobbing. “It’s okay now, honey,” Eva said. “It’s okay.”

  Marisol pulled the two women into the office and locked the door behind them.

  “He’s down, but is he dead?” Marisol asked.

  Eva left Serena to feel for a pulse and nodded.

  “The guys he came with?” Marisol asked. “They still out there?”

  Eva nodded. “When I saw the Hummer, I came in the back.”

  “You think they heard the blast?” Marisol asked.

  “Maybe,” Eva said. “But they’ll probably assume it’s him shooting you. We need to call the cops before they figure it out.”

  Marisol nodded. “But we can’t have cops here until we secure the place.”

  “You handle security,” Eva said. “I’ll take care of Serena.”

  While Eva took Serena out the back way, Marisol started sliding bookshelves.

  She covered the doors in the hallway that connected to the modeling agency. The specialty bookshelves slid on casters, completely covering the doors, and then slid flush with the wall, so there wasn’t even a gap for the knob. She heard Jerry’s phone ringing through the hallway.

  When Marisol came back, she surveyed the wreck of her office.

  The cell on Marisol’s desk began to ring again. Marisol couldn’t stand it, and turned the phone to silent.

  She sat down to call the cops on her landline. On the desktop were messages that had come in during her trip. Serena always piled them neatly, but Jerry’s tirade had disarranged them. The top one said, “Raul Barrios called AGAIN.” Half the messages in the stack were from Raul. “Called to apologize . . . called twice today . . . please call when you get back.”

  Instead of calling the ninth precinct, Marisol called the number on the message.

  It rang three times before he picked up.

  “Marisol,” Raul’s voice came on the line. “Mami, I am so—”

  “I shot Jerry,” she said.

  “The pimp?” Raul asked.

  “Three times. He’s on the floor of my office.”

  She could see the toe of one of Jerry’s dress shoes in her peripheral vision. Shiny.

  “Are the cops there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Marisol gave him the three door codes that would get him from the front door into her office. Marisol sat unmoving. Not until the disconnect sound began to buzz in her ear did she hang up.

  She felt her stoma
ch heave, and she leaned over to vomit into her wastebasket.

  She wiped her mouth and sat frozen at the desk, gun in hand, watching the dead man’s shiny left shoe for any sign of movement. She couldn’t shake the irrational fear that, unless she stayed vigilant, Jerry would rise from the dead like a zombie, an unkillable mass of vengeful rage.

  * * *

  Jerry was still dead when Raul arrived fifteen minutes later.

  “Marisol,” he said, crossing the office with his arms outstretched.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  Raul stepped back to survey the body.

  Jerry lay in a wide bloodstain on the carpet, weapon peeking out from beneath the desk.

  “He had a gun,” Raul said. “He broke in and threatened you. It was a clear case of self-defense.”

  “I had to shoot him three times,” Marisol said from the desk. “He kept coming at us.”

  “Us?” Raul asked. “Who else was involved?”

  “Serena, but we have to keep her out of this. She’s transgender and undocumented.”

  “She still here?”

  “Eva took her home.”

  “Eva?”

  “She slipped me the gun,” Marisol said.

  “Anything else?” Raul asked.

  “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  Raul nodded. “Don’t lead with that.”

  Chapter 32

  “So let’s go over this again,” the cop said. He was fortyish, short, and had a crew cut.

  “I had just come back from visiting my sister in Cuba,” Marisol said, taking a sip of water. “I stopped by my office to find Jerry had broken in and threatened to kill me. I shot him three times.”

  “With an illegal, unregistered weapon,” the cop said.

  “It’s registered in Pennsylvania to Eva Feldman.”

  “Does this look like Pennsylvania?”

  More cops came trooping up the stairs, including two homicide detectives. Marisol felt nearly claustrophobic with all the police in her office.

  “What do we got?” one of the homicide guys asked.