Side Chick Nation

by Aya De León

  They talked for a while longer and then Dulce ripped Gerard’s card in two and threw it into the recycling.

  Marisol walked her to the door and she gave her another hug.

  On her way out, Dulce glanced back over her shoulder and thought she saw Marisol retrieve Gerard’s card from the blue bin.

  * * *

  Dulce took the subway up to 168th Street.

  She stepped above ground into a changing neighborhood. She saw a pair of white hipsters headed past her into the subway. The girl had rainbow dreadlocks and the guy had a folding bike. But on the street, Dulce still recognized the woman at the corner bodega and gave her a wave. In Dulce’s disheveled state, the woman didn’t seem to recognize her, but smiled and waved anyway.

  Dulce walked down three long blocks to her family’s apartment. She didn’t really think of it as her home anymore. It had been over half a decade.

  She picked up her phone and dialed her mom’s number. No answer. The voicemail greeting was a robo-voice that told her the number. She hung up, not even sure why she had bothered calling her mother. It was a sort of ritual. Every time she came home, she would check to see how Mami was doing. Had she gotten up? Was she dressed? Had she taken a shower? Had she eaten? Most of the time, she would walk in to find her mom lying in bed, the TV on—playing the news or novelas. Maybe asleep, maybe awake. If there was a plate near the bed, that was a good sign. Usually, she was in the same clothes from the day before.

  Except Sunday. Sundays she got up, dressed and went to church like everything was fine.

  Dulce called her sister Yunisa.

  “Dónde stas?” she asked. “Are you back in New York yet?”

  “I’m downstairs,” Dulce said.

  “No shit,” Yunisa said. “Dario, go buzz your titi in!”

  In the background, she could hear her nephew: “buzzer’s broken, Mami.”

  “Then go downstairs and let her in!” Dulce could hear the door slam in the background. “He’ll be down in a—”

  Her sister was interrupted by a shriek from the baby.

  Yunisa put the phone down, but apparently didn’t hang up. Dulce got to hear her alternate between cooing and scolding in the couple minutes it took for her nephew to run down three flights of stairs.

  As she waited, Dulce turned off the ringer on her phone. Otherwise, she’d just be hoping against hope that Zavier would call.

  When Dario opened the door, she was shocked to see how tall he was. He’d had a mouth full of baby teeth when she’d last seen him, but now he had one front tooth missing and two permanent teeth were just growing in on the bottom.

  “Darito!” she said, and pulled him into a huge hug.

  “Caballito!” he demanded one of the piggy back rides she had given him when they used to see each other.

  She tried to heave him onto her back. “Carajo,” she said. “Has your mami been feeding you cement?”

  He was disappointed when she insisted he walk up the stairs, but put him on her back the moment they got up to their floor.

  When Yunisa opened the apartment door, the place looked so small.

  She hugged her sister, and fussed over her new niece. The baby was six months old, and it was Dulce’s first time seeing her.

  Dario was slipping off her back, and he insisted she put down the baby to give him the promised horsey ride.

  Dulce handed the baby back to Yunisa, and galloped around the small living room with Darito on her back. She galloped down the short hallway to the bathroom. She galloped into the bedroom that her sister shared with the kids, trampling piles of laundry and stuffed animals. She galloped into her mother’s room, only to find her facing a meteorologist who was predicting rain and a cooling trend.

  “Mami, I’m back,” Dulce said.

  “Gracias a Diós,” her mother said, but didn’t look up.

  Dulce galloped back out into the hall.

  In the living room, her sister had put baby Belcalis in the play pen. Everyone called her Lali. She was chewing on the end of a plastic cooking spoon.

  Dulce’s sister was standing next to the door. She was shoving some clothes and a pair of high heel ankle boots into an oversized handbag. She had grabbed a fashionable cropped jacket off the hook by the apartment door.

  “I’m going out to the store,” she said. “Can you watch the kids for a minute?”

  Dulce cocked her head to the side. “The store?” she asked, eyeing the bag. “A minute?”

  “Please?” her sister asked.

  Yunisa was just four years her senior, but she seemed a decade older. She always looked tired and had a frown wrinkle between her eyes. She worked nine to five at a fast food restaurant, and took care of their mother, as well as her kids.

  “Go ahead,” Dulce said. “No need to hurry back.”

  “Gracias, mi amor,” Yunisa said, and gave Dulce a quick hug before she ran out the door.

  Dulce fed the kids dinner and put them to bed. The three of them crashed on the fold-out couch in the living room.

  Later that night, she went to check on her mom. She was lying in bed watching TV. Dulce recognized the music from A Woman’s Dark Past. She climbed into bed behind her mother and they watched together.

  Xoana has Izabel by the wrist.

  “Let go of me, you whore!” Izabel says. “I still have an envelope that shows you screwing another man with your wedding dress in the background.”

  “Well, I happen to know that you killed my husband,” Xoana says.

  Izabel hesitates for a brief second. “Why would I care about your husband?” Izabel asks. “I never even met your husband.”

  “Maybe you never even saw him,” Xoana says. “But he wasn’t your target. You were trying to kill me.”

  “You?” Izabel asks haughtily. She walks slowly around Xoana, looking her up and down. “Why would I be the least bit bothered about killing you?”

  “At first I couldn’t believe it, either,” Xoana says. “I had always thought of you as my sister. Not that you ever cared much for me, but I didn’t think you hated me enough to kill me.”

  “For once, you’re right,” Izabel says with a shrug.

  “I hoped it wouldn’t be true,” Xoana says. “I hoped it right up until I got evidence that you bought the poison. And still—still, my mind was trying to find some kind of alternative explanation. Until I found the cab driver who took you to our house. It was like a needle in a haystack, but I didn’t stop until I found him.”

  “So what?” Izabel says. “Some lowly cab driver will testify that he took me in his taxi? He could be mistaken. He could be lying. He could have been bribed.”

  “And the pharmacist who sold you the poison?” Xoana asks.

  “Easy to discredit,” Izabel says.

  “And the testimony of Guilherme,” Xoana says. “He told you he still had feelings for me. That he wanted to honor your marriage. He begged you to move back to our home town because it was too painful to see me. He’ll testify. He doesn’t want to be married to a murderess.”

  “A murderess?” Izabel asks. “What about a whore? Do you think he’ll really take your word over mine when he sees those photos? Without him, you have two low-level strangers. Once I reveal those photos, your case falls apart. No way to establish any motive. You’ll just look like a crazy person. A widow overcome by grief. Irrational. Trying to make sense of her husband’s death. Or worse yet, a whore trying to steal my husband. Trying to attack me, the daughter of two distinguished professors at the university. You’ll be the sewer rat we should never have taken in.”

  “Go ahead,” Xoana says. “Call me a rat. A whore. Savor the taste of the word on your tongue. You think you can wound me with that word? I’ve survived so much worse. So go ahead and hand over the envelope. I’ll give it to Guilherme myself. I told him everything. And he still loves me. He’ll come to love my daughter. We’ll be a family.”

  “Lying bitch!” Izabel lunges for Xoana and begins to choke her.

&nb
sp; With Xoana’s last bit of strength, she pulls the fire alarm. Sprinklers come on, but police also appear. Everyone is quickly soaked.

  The officers move in, and pull Izabel off of Xoana.

  She is still gasping for breath when Guilherme appears. He ignores Izabel and runs to Xoana.

  “My darling, are you okay?”

  “Guilherme, how could you betray me?” Izabel asks.

  “Betray you?” Guilherme asks. “You are the traitor. Time and time again. And this time you nearly killed the woman I love. I’ll never let you succeed.”

  The police take a screaming Izabel away.

  Guilherme takes Xoana into his arms. He kisses her neck where Izabel had bruised her. He kisses her cheeks, her hairline, her lips.

  Two fire fighters rush in.

  “Someone pulled the alarm!” one says.

  “Where’s the fire?” the other one asks.

  “Right here,” Xoana says, as she and Guilherme continue to kiss.

  The baby began to cry, and Dulce hopped up to see about her. It took a half hour of walking her up and down the short hallway to get her back to sleep.

  Yunisa didn’t get home til after three AM. When she came in the door, it woke Dulce. For a moment, she thought she was back in Puerto Rico. She felt the back of her nephew in the fold-out next to her, and heard someone tiptoeing past her in the dark. The memories of Zavier and the Lumineer Hotel flooded back.

  But she wasn’t in in San Juan. She was in Washington Heights. Never again would she find herself lying next to Zavier. This was her life now.

  Her mother was like a ghost who barely spoke to her. Her sister was in way over her head and always looking to tap Dulce for help. Zavier was supposed to be her ticket out of all this. But not anymore.

  She lay on the fold-out between the two children and cried silently. The tears ran down the sides of her temples and soaked into the faded floral sheets she’d known since she was born.

  * * *

  Earlier that night, Marisol had been sitting in the executive director’s office with Tyesha and Serena. Marisol was scouring the internet for any information about Phillip Gerard’s Puerto Rico racket. Serena was trying to find a money trail for the donations and to get information on Gerard’s financial portfolio. Tyesha was working on a grant proposal.

  At nine-thirty, two women walked in with a large box of takeout. The Asian girl, Kim, had shoulder-length black hair and a new septum piercing. Her girlfriend Jody was a head taller, with spiky blonde hair, and a frame that would have been decidedly masculine if not for her large bra size.

  “Serena said you needed some reinforcements?” Kim said.

  “We need a white girl,” Tyesha said, not looking up from her grant proposal.

  Jody rolled her eyes. “Serena’s white,” she said. “How come I always get the white girl jobs?”

  “First of all, I’m Greek,” Serena said. “Which is off-white. And second, we need someone who looks like a waspy heiress.”

  “You all know I’m really descended from Polish farmers, though. Right?” Jody said.

  “Yes, but none of us can even pass as a WASP,” Kim said.

  “Exactly,” Marisol said. “We need that same girl from the Ukrainian mob heist.”

  “Ugh,” Jody said. “I hate her.”

  “But you still have the wig,” Kim said. “And the dress.”

  Jody made a face like she was smelling something foul.

  “Don’t worry,” Marisol said. “No hand jobs this time.”

  “Well that’s a comfort,” Jody said.

  Marisol handed her a torn business card that had been taped back together.

  “This is the mark?” Jody asked.

  “He’s a disaster capitalist,” Marisol said.

  “It’s worse than that,” Serena said. “He’s into cryptocurrency.”

  “Crypto-what?” Jody asked.

  “Money from crypts?” Kim asked. “Like grave robbers?”

  Serena shook her head. “No, it’s encrypted currency. That is, money that’s off the grid. Digital transactions outside the banking system so they can’t be traced.”

  “I heard about that,” Tyesha said. “It’s like the new money laundering.”

  “Exactly,” Serena said. “A lot of people use it to make transactions with drug money or money that’s made from human trafficking, particularly sex trafficking. Less of a trail.”

  “That should fucking be illegal,” Kim said.

  “Sex trafficking is,” Serena said. “Which is why they want untraceable currency to pay for it.”

  “Those assholes,” Jody said.

  “This guy isn’t just into cryptocurrency,” Marisol said. “He’s one of a group of vultures using that money to try to buy up Puerto Rico.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Kim said. “They’re still counting all the bodies.”

  “One white girl reporting for duty,” Jody said. “We need to take this fucker down.”

  “And you got his cell number from Dulce?” Serena asked.

  “Yeah,” Marisol said. “He was her sugar daddy for a while.”

  “Not that I’m trying to get out of anything here,” Jody said. “But why don’t you ask Dulce to make the move if they already have a relationship?”

  “I’ve risked my life for that girl,” Marisol said. “But I can’t trust Dulce with something like this. She’s too easily manipulated by powerful men.”

  “I’d have to agree,” Serena said. “Me and Marisol nearly died because Dulce slipped up and told Jerry that Marisol was taking her to Cuba.”

  “That was over a year ago,” Jody said. “She was barely out of her teens when she left. But look at that New York Times piece. She’s obviously grown up a lot.”

  “I don’t know if you’d be so ready to gamble on her if you’d been the one staring down the barrel of that pimp’s gun,” Serena said.

  “I’m usually pushing Marisol to trust people,” Tyesha said. “But this time, I agree.”

  “Besides,” Marisol said. “We don’t need someone who looks like they want to get some of his money, we need someone who looks like they want to give him some money.”

  “Okay,” Jody said. “What’s the plan?”

  “I know these guys had a face-to-face in New York this morning,” Marisol said. “You’ll call his cell and ask for a meeting.”

  “And who am I this time?” Jody asked.

  “You’re the lure,” Marisol said. “You’ll be pretending to be a big donor.”

  “No,” Jody said. “I meant what’s my identity.”

  “Heidi Honeywell,” Marisol said. “Of the Connecticut Honeywells.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Jody was on the phone. The team sat around as she called the number from the business card on the speakerphone. So they all heard when the mechanical voice informed them they had reached a number that was no longer in service.

  “Dammit!” Marisol said, and banged her fist on the table.

  Tyesha shrugged, not looking up from her grant proposal. “You just need to call Dulce and ask if he has another number.”

  “I don’t trust her not to say anything,” Marisol said.

  “What?” Kim said. “Because in the past she told some of your business to a pimp? That was different. He turned her out as a teenager. Nobody will ever have that same power over Dulce again. Give her some credit.”

  “It’s not about credit,” Marisol said. “This guy is worse than a pimp. He’s so well connected and has so many resources that he could damage us beyond one pimp with a gun. We can’t take that risk.”

  Serena closed her laptop. “Well we can’t pull this heist if we don’t have his number. We don’t know where he’s staying. He doesn’t have any property in Florida under his own name. I could find his number, but it’ll take time.”

  Marisol shook her head. “We don’t have time,” she said. “Right after a tragedy the donations are the highest. Check the hotels near the corporatio
n where they had the face-to-face meet.”

  “I already did,” Serena said. “There are over a hundred four- and five-star hotels in a mile radius.”

  “Coño!” Marisol said.

  Tyesha looked up from her laptop. “Marisol, you’re gonna have to let something go,” she said. “If you wanna do this job, you’re gonna have to put some of your trust in Dulce.”

  “Definitely not,” Marisol said. “She’s too fucking impulsive. And in some ways naïve. Plus, when money goes missing, the whores are the first ones who get blamed. He’d come sniffing around and I don’t trust her to hold it together.”

  “I agree with Kim that you’re not giving her enough credit,” Jody said.

  “The girlfriends always vote as a bloc,” Serena said.

  “This isn’t a vote,” Marisol said. “We’re not bringing Dulce on board for this job and that’s final.”

  “Without Dulce, there is no job,” Tyesha said.

  “There’s gotta be another way,” Marisol insisted.

  “We could look for him at a hundred hotels,” Serena said.

  “Where he might not even be traveling under his own name,” Kim added.

  “Then that’s what we’ll need to do,” Marisol said. “Serena, draw up the list. We’ll divide up and start now.”

  Tyesha closed her laptop and stood up. “Marisol,” she said, walking over to the couch. “We can do it your way, but there’s a huge risk that we won’t be able to find him. Or that we’ll be too late.” She put her arm around Marisol. “You gotta weigh that against trusting Dulce. And I think you need to call her. After everything your people have been through? I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly.”

  “It’s an impossible choice,” Marisol said. “Risking everything we’ve built versus everything he’s stolen.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to live with yourself if this asshole escapes from New York City with all this money,” Tyesha said. “Money he swindled from Puerto Ricans in New York to displace Puerto Ricans on the island.”

  Marisol nodded, and her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry. She picked up her phone and called Dulce. Not on speaker. It rang and went to voice mail.

  * * *

  The next day, Marisol finally caught up with Dulce on the phone.