Side Chick Nation

by Aya De León

  As she turned the corner to the Vega clinic, a red Mercedes came around the corner and beeped at her. She ignored it, but the driver called her name and rolled down the window. She peered in and saw Phillip Gerard. Was it the same Mercedes from Santo Domingo? Had he shipped it from the Caribbean? No that was ridiculous. He must have rented it.

  “So glad to see everything turned out okay,” he said. “You need a ride anywhere?”

  “No thanks,” she said. “I’m not going far.”

  “Well, can you talk for a minute?” he asked.

  Dulce stopped. The whole thing reminded her of when she was walking down the street as a teenager. Grown men used to yell at her from cars. She would do everything to avoid them. Avoid eye contact. Give evasive responses. But she wasn’t a teenager anymore. She wasn’t going to come when he called, and she wasn’t going to avoid him, either.

  “Phillip, I’m not interested anymore in . . . whatever it was we had going,” she said. The words “I have a boyfriend,” almost tumbled out of her mouth. That was her teenage excuse. Even though it wasn’t true then, and it was true now.

  “Well, can we catch up?” he asked. “I was worried about you. I felt bad about not helping, you know, once I realized how serious the hurricane was.”

  “Well you certainly haven’t wasted any time figuring how to turn things to your advantage,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Your real estate group is buying up plenty of Puerto Rican coastline,” she said.

  “That’s not fair,” he said. “I have a plan to turn the land I’m buying into a public land trust.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” Dulce said.

  “No really,” he said. “I have the papers right here.”

  “Let me read the fine print,” she said, and walked over to the car.

  He pulled out a leather folder. “Look, it’s all in here. Have a seat. I’ll walk you through it.”

  The folder said “San Juan Philanthropic Land Trust.” She sat down in the passenger seat, and he put the folder in her lap.

  When he opened it, the wind blew through the windows, almost scattering the papers.

  “Let me roll these up,” he said, and as Dulce flipped through the papers, he raised the windows.

  It was the click of the locking door that told her something was wrong. But by then, he had floored the pedal and the car screeched away from the curb.

  “What the fuck?” she asked.

  “Damn bitch,” he said. “You thought you were gonna steal my money. I wasn’t generous enough to you.”

  “I never stole a fucking peso from you when we were in the Caribbean.”

  He tore up the avenue and cut around a taxi.

  “Don’t fucking play dumb with me,” he said. “You know I don’t mean that money. I mean the money in the account.”

  “Since when did I have access to any of your accounts,” she asked. “You never even let me use your credit card. I couldn’t even sign for meals in the room.”

  “Lying whore!” he said. “I saw you in the New York Times with those two other cunts. The blonde and the Asian chick. Drinking fucking champagne. Celebrating that you took my goddamn money!”

  The light had just changed, but he ran the red, barely missing a furniture delivery truck.

  Dulce had no idea what he was talking about. Kim and Jody had taken some of his money? How did he even know them?

  He turned onto the East Side Highway. Where the hell was he taking her? This wasn’t good. He could go anywhere now that he was on the highway. Could drive for miles and miles. She checked his gas tank. Nearly full. He could drive her to Canada if he wanted.

  “I barely know them,” she said. “If they stole some shit from you, I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “How did they get my number?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dulce said. “Are you saying that I’m the only person you’ve given it to?”

  Shit. She had given Marisol the number. Could Marisol have robbed him?

  “Don’t act like I’m stupid,” he said. “You had the number. She called it out of the blue. Then I saw you together. So we’re going somewhere that I swear I will wring your neck til you tell me where I can find my money.”

  Dulce could feel her stomach drop down in her body.

  “My friends were just down the street when you pulled up,” Dulce said. “They waved to me. They probably got your license plate.”

  “You’re bluffing,” he said. “Nobody knows you’re with me. Just like nobody knows yet that I got robbed. Because you’re gonna help me get that fucking money back before anyone notices it is gone.”

  As he spoke, they pulled alongside another car. Dulce turned and banged on the window, trying to alert the other driver.

  The woman was singing along to the radio. She had on shades and was swaying to the music. She didn’t seem to notice

  But Gerard did. He began to drive fast, reckless, avoiding getting close enough to other cars that they could see her. Then he pulled into the right hand lane, so there was nothing next to her, just railing and buildings, and New York sky.

  No fucking way. She wasn’t going to let him get her somewhere isolated. She looked around for a weapon, but all she had was the leather folder on her lap, and the papers.

  Carefully, she unlaced her boot, and slid her foot out of it.

  Then, quick as she could, she gripped the instep, and brought it up—heel first—to break the window.

  The safety glass shattered, and she opened the folder. Papers flew all around the car. Several stuck to the inside of the windshield. He couldn’t see.

  “Fucking crazy bitch!” he said.

  The car started to careen across the highway.

  With a thud, they collided with another car and the Mercedes bounced off it.

  Gerard slowed a bit, and scrabbled at the papers on the windshield, pulling enough down so he could see.

  But soon, they heard a siren.

  The moment Gerard pulled over, Dulce crashed the rest of the glass out of the window and attempted to climb out. She barely felt the scratches of her arms against the crumbling glass.

  “Stay in the car, ma’am,” the police officer’s voice came through over a loudspeaker. It was a motorcycle cop.

  Dulce froze, her torso out of the window, the safety glass pressing up through the thin cotton of her shirt.

  The officer came toward the car, gun drawn.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered.

  Dulce slowly lifted her hands up.

  “Sir, hands on the steering wheel where I can see them!”

  The officer took his time approaching the car.

  “Now we’re gonna do this nice and easy,” he said. “Sir, step out of the car. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Carefully, Gerard stepped out of the Mercedes, hands above his head.

  “Walk around the car and stand next to her,” the cop ordered.

  Gerard walked around the front of the car. “Thank god you stopped us, officer,” Gerard began. “This young lady asked me for a ride, then she simply went crazy. She broke my window—”

  “That’s a lie,” Dulce said. “He kidnapped me. He threatened to kill me.”

  “Shut up,” the cop said.

  “She’s absolutely—”

  “Both of you,” the cop said. “Shut up!”

  “Now you,” he gestured to Dulce. “Keep your hands over your head and exit the vehicle.”

  “How?” she asked. “I can’t open the door with my hands up. Besides, he locked me in.”

  The three of them stood there, just looking at each other as the cars whizzed by.

  A moment later, a police cruiser pulled up. An older officer stepped out, gun drawn.

  The younger cop walked over to Dulce, with the gun in her face: “I’m going to open this door,” he said. “And you are going to duck your body back through the opening, very slowly, keeping your arms ove
r your head.”

  As if she were in slow motion, Dulce complied. Soon, she found herself standing out on the highway, one boot and one bare foot on the concrete, the gun pointed straight at her chest.

  “Cuff them both,” the older cop said.

  “Officer,” Gerard said. “My name is Phillip Gerard. This young lady solicited me for prostitution. I told her I wasn’t interested, but when she told me her sob story, I offered her a ride. I assure you, I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “He’s lying,” Dulce said, as calmly as she could. “He kidnapped me.” She was afraid to say anything about the robbery. Could Marisol really have gotten Kim and Jody to rip him off? She didn’t want to snitch on them. But without that piece of information, the whole thing didn’t make any sense.

  Dulce looked down at her bleeding arms. Her single boot. Her raggedy jeans. The wind was blowing her wild hair into her face. She must look a mess. Of course they were gonna believe him. She looked like a feral animal. He looked like the kind of citizen they were sworn to protect and serve.

  Gerard was standing just behind her now. The officer still had the gun aimed directly at Dulce.

  “Seriously,” Gerard said. “The mayor is only a couple of phone calls away for me. Let’s talk this over before you cuff me. Her on the other hand? She needs to be restrained for her own protection.”

  The officer in charge nodded to the younger cop.

  He walked forward and commanded that Dulce kneel down. He leaned over and pulled her hands behind her back.

  Dulce’s heart sank. When they ran her prints or her ID, they’d find her arrest for prostitution. Fuck.

  “Excuse me?” a woman’s voice yelled. “Officers?”

  A car had pulled over behind the cruiser, and the woman had her head stuck out of the window. Dulce could barely see her face, as she was backlit by all the headlights coming behind them.

  The older cop headed toward her.

  “This woman was signaling for help,” she said and pointed to Dulce.

  “Ma’am, stay in your car,” the cop said. His voice was loud, but the wind was blowing away from the woman. Without the loudspeaker, it swallowed up the sound.

  The woman began to exit the car. Dulce looked from the barrel of the younger cop’s gun to the middle-aged blonde walking toward them on the side of the highway.

  “She was banging on the window,” the woman continued. “Trying to get away from that man.” The woman had on a long coat, the wind was flapping the hem and blowing her pale, wispy hair to the side.

  “Ma’am, get back in your vehicle,” the cop insisted.

  “I was listening to music, and by the time I realized what I was seeing, he had taken off,” the woman said. “But I called 911. Then I saw that it was his red Mercedes that was pulled over. I had to come tell you what I saw. I got off at the next exit and turned around and got back on the highway. These men can’t just abduct young girls like that and expect—”

  The older officer lifted his gun. “Ma’am, stay where you are.”

  The woman broke off mid-sentence. Her eyes opened wide, but she didn’t lift her hands.

  From behind Dulce, Gerard started back up. “This has all been a terrible misunderstanding,” he said. “I’m sure I can clear it up. Just let me make that call.”

  “Don’t move,” the younger cop said.

  “Why is she the one who’s been handcuffed?” the woman asked. “And for god’s sake, why is she on her knees? Like I said, she was banging on the window for help. I called it in.”

  “I’m gonna call for additional backup,” the older cop said. “And see if I can verify her 911 call.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said. “As I said before, I recognized the car. I recognized the woman.”

  “Stop talking,” the younger cop said.

  “I just need to make one call,” Gerard insisted.

  “You’re not going to let him, are you?” the woman asked.

  “Just everybody shut up and stop moving!” the young cop said.

  He had the gun trained on Dulce. She wished the woman would shut the fuck up, before this nervous babyfaced white boy shot her by mistake.

  Behind her, Gerard had one of his hands down from above his head. It was at the level of his neck, now.

  “Officer, I assure you,” Gerard pressed. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with here.”

  “Please keep your hands up, sir,” the younger cop said, although he still had the gun trained on Dulce.

  “Don’t fall for that,” the woman said from the other side of the cop. “This guy is trying to manipulate you with his big shot bullshit.”

  The young cop half-turned to the woman. “Shut up, ma’am. Just shut up!”

  He was still half turned when the older cop slammed the cruiser door.

  Dulce saw it all.

  How the younger cop twitched at the sudden bang sound. How he was still twisted toward the woman, not looking at her or Gerard. Not looking but his hand responded. His trigger finger. He shot the gun.

  Dulce saw it all, as if in slow motion. And she felt a delay in the searing of the bullet into her body. Kept waiting for the impact as the sound of the shot echoed in the air and the wind blew a faint scent of cordite toward her.

  Only in the split second later, when she heard the thud of flesh on pavement, did she put together what she had seen in her peripheral vision. Only then, did she realize that it was Gerard who had recoiled, then crumpled to the ground. She had been kneeling, so the bullet had cleared her and hit him.

  “What the fuck?” the older cop asked.

  “My god,” the woman said. “Oh my god.”

  The younger cop’s mouth was open, but he couldn’t seem to put words together. “I didn’t—” he stammered. “I thought—”

  The older cop rushed to where Gerard lay.

  “Call an ambulance,” he ordered the younger cop, who stumbled into motion.

  The older cop knelt by the man on the ground. In a flash, he had two fingers on Gerard’s neck. Then, Dulce could tell by the abrupt change in the cop’s speed of movement that Gerard must not have made it. One moment the cop was rushing, and the next, he moved as if underwater, pressing through resistance, lethargy, or dread.

  Chapter 31

  Six hours later, Dulce sat in a precinct in Queens, waiting for Zavier to pick her up. She was wrapped in a blanket. She had both shoes on now.

  They hadn’t arrested her, just checked her for warrants. They didn’t check the woman who had pulled over. Just taken her statement and let her go. Dulce was too dazed to even say thank you before the cops took the woman back to her car on the highway.

  When Zavier arrived, Dulce felt disoriented, disembodied.

  “Baby, are you okay?” he asked.

  She could feel herself nod, absently.

  “Come on,” he said. “I parked around the corner.”

  When they had climbed into the small hatchback, she could feel her body start to shake.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  Dulce shook her head. She couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t understand what was going on.

  “Dulce, you have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “He tried to kill me,” she said. “He thought I stole something of his, and he tried to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “A guy I used to know,” Dulce said.

  “Did they catch him?” Zavier asked.

  “No,” Dulce said. “They killed him.”

  “The cops killed him?” Zavier asked.

  Dulce nodded. She couldn’t speak.

  “Was he black or Latino?” Zavier asked.

  “White,” Dulce said. “He was a white businessman.”

  Zavier’s eyebrows rose.

  “They shot him in front of you?”

  Dulce nodded again. She could feel herself falling apart inside.

  He pulled her close.

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” he said,
his mouth close to her ear, his voice soft, tender.

  She collapsed into him.

  When the blanket fell off her arms, he cried out at the sight of the red scratches on her arms.

  “It’s looks worse than it is,” she said.

  But he kissed each one of them.

  It was his tenderness that undid her. Not even her mother had ever taken the time to so painstakingly and gently kiss every single place she had been wounded.

  When the sobbing began, it was at that place where the river meets the ocean. New fresh water trickling from the land to meet the boundless stretch of sea. The reclaiming of this previously lost love was freshwater, but the grief of the motherless daughter has unfathomable depths. Yet they met here, in briny, brackish water streaking down Dulce’s face, and sobs undulating through her body like waves, as she wailed, wounded and unraveling in Zavier’s arms.

  * * *

  After she sat up and wiped her eyes, she looked Zavier in the face.

  “It was that same businessman,” she said.

  “What?” Zavier asked, confused.

  “The one from Santo Domingo,” Dulce said. “And from the Miami airport. The one who pretended to be my uncle. He drove up next to me and wanted to talk. I said I wasn’t trying to do—any of what we did before. He said he just wanted to show me something about a charity he was setting up in Puerto Rico. Then he locked the door and drove off.”

  Zavier’s eyes narrowed.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Dulce cocked her head, exasperated. “Because it’s gonna be in the fucking paper tomorrow. And I don’t want you thinking that I lied to you.”

  “I don’t give a damn who he was,” Zavier said. “As long as you’re all right and he can’t ever fuck with you again, that’s all I care about.”

  He leaned in and kissed her, and she kissed back. She could feel her whole body respond, and she reached to pull him closer to her. Then the gear shift pressed into her ribs, and he bumped his hip on the steering wheel.

  “Coño,” he said. “This car is too small.”

  She looked around as if seeing her surroundings for the first time. “Wait,” she said. “I thought you didn’t have a car.”