Uptown Thief (18 page)

“Hello?” Marisol called, pointing the flashlight into the hallway.

“What the hell?” The man wheeled toward her.

“I'm calling nine-one-one.” The woman blinked several times and pressed buttons on the phone.

“Sorry to startle you folks,” Marisol said. “Feel free to call, but we already alerted them about the gas leak.” She shut off the flashlight. “We checked out the units above and below, but I don't know why your upstairs neighbor smelled gas. I'll have the boys check the line, but I couldn't find a thing.” She strode right up to them and stood close enough to smell the liquor on the woman's breath. The woman hung up the phone. The man seethed.

“What the hell are you doing in our apartment?” he demanded.

“The security guard let me in,” Marisol said, shrugging and putting the flashlight away. “Dante.”

“That idiot was falling asleep at the desk,” the man said.

“Well, I'm done here, unless either of you has been smelling gas. Have you smelled gas?” she asked as she eased past them toward the door.

“Wait just a minute,” the man said, taking her arm.

“Don't put your fucking hands on me,” Marisol said. “I'm just trying to do my fucking job. And if your gas lines are as bad as your security, it would serve you right if your damn apartment blew up. You should be fucking thanking me.”

She strode past him. In the bag, she kept the flashlight gripped tight in her fist.

Her other hand was on the door and she was turning the knob when the wife spoke. “But our range is electric.”

Over her shoulder, Marisol saw the split second when the man's face transformed, his eyes widening with comprehension and fury. He pushed the wife aside and lunged toward Marisol.

She swung the door at him and it knocked him back. She was two steps ahead of him, running out the door, but he leaped after her and tackled her in the hallway, grabbing her at the knees. She pulled out the flashlight, and as the two of them fell, she twisted her body so she wouldn't be facedown. He fell on top of her, and attempted to hit her in the face, but the blow glided off the ConEd hat.

The pressure of his body on her chest brought a spasm of memory. She let out a howl and swung the flashlight with all her strength. She connected with the side of his head. He grunted and slumped down across her body, his chest on her abdomen. Blood gushed out onto the carpet. Marisol wriggled out from under the unconscious man, her stomach threatening to heave.

“See, Steve?” the woman yelled. “I'm not that drunk. I knew we had an electric stove and you didn't, you arrogant bastard.”

Marisol ran down the hall. The last thing she heard as she tore open the door to the stairwell was the woman calling, “Steve? Steve?”

* * *

Marisol could barely feel the ground under her as she passed the dozing guard and the doorman, blinking against sleep.

In the stairwell, she had removed the hard hat and the ConEd vest, and shoved them into the bag, along with the bricks of cash.

She felt the jagged rattle of adrenaline in her limbs. She breathed in the night air, and the urge to vomit subsided.

Tyesha was right. She should never have done the job without backup. Someone to watch the mark, make sure they didn't come home early. Anyone who could see a drunk woman being escorted from a midtown restaurant and text her a warning.

She moved through the clotted foot traffic in the thick slate-gray outfit and auburn wig. She held the shoulder bag balled up in front of her chest.

Just around the corner, she could see the dark town car, and Nalissa's bright red hair through the front windshield. The image of the man flashed into her mind again. His dark green suit, blood on his bald head.

She opened the door of the car to get in.

“Just a moment, miss.” She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. Instinctively, she dropped her shoulder bag onto the floor of the car. She felt her heart in her throat.

“Can I help you?” she asked, turning around. It was the older security guard and a younger female guard.

“Miss, there was a robbery around the corner,” the young woman guard said. “A man was injured. My colleague here said you just exited the building. Do you mind coming back to answer a few questions?”

“Not at all,” Marisol said. She closed the door on the bag and gestured for Nalissa to go. The sedan slowly pulled away from the curb.

She walked back toward the building, while the older guard nearly stumbled with drowsiness.

Marisol made to enter the building next door to the one she had robbed. The doped-up security guard followed her.

“Where are you going?” the young woman guard asked.

“He said this building was robbed,” Marisol said.

“No, it was the next building,” the woman said.

Marisol frowned. “But this is the building I walked out of,” she said.

The young woman looked at the drowsy guard and rolled her eyes.

She turned back to Marisol. “I'm sorry. Do you mind if I search you? Just a formality.”

“I understand.” Marisol shrugged. She stood, feet apart, and put out her arms.

The guard patted her down. She removed a billfold with a twenty-dollar bill, a fake ID, and a MetroCard from one pocket, and her phone from the other.

“Sorry, Lourdes,” she said, looking at the name on the ID.

As Marisol walked away, the relief flooded on top of the second surge of adrenaline, nearly wilting her entire body.

As she pressed against the wave of exhaustion, she called Nalissa. No answer. She accelerated her pace away from the building, calling three more times before crossing the park to arrive at the subway. She texted for Nalissa to meet her at the clinic and caught the train.

* * *

When she came back aboveground on the Lower East Side, she felt a dull echo of anxiety where her panic should be. She was too emotionally spent, her body unable to manufacture a sufficient response.

By the time she got to the clinic and saw no sign of the town car, she could feel the anxiety turn to dread. She made a couple of calls, then lay on the clinic lobby couch in a stupor. Beside her, a display held condoms and a bright red and pink sign: “Stay Safe for Valentine's Day!” The auburn wig lay in her lap like a forlorn pet.

Two hours later, Tyesha called with a secondhand report. Earlier that evening, Nalissa had left her shared apartment with a suitcase, talking about an unexpected trip to see a sick relative.

After Marisol hung up the phone, it really hit her. Nalissa and the money were gone—maybe twenty thousand. No way to pay the mortgage by tomorrow. The whole thing would come due in ninety days. Ninety days to raise $247,953 plus interest.

She called the number she had for Jeremy VanDyke.

“One moment, Miss Rivera,” his assistant said.

The decision had slid into place like a dead bolt, with a sharp
click
, locking her in. Like when she was seventeen and standing in a grimy hallway with an eviction notice in her hand.
I don't care who I have to fuck, we're not gonna end up out on the street.

She clenched her fist around the locket on her neck. Back then it had been Cristina she'd been determined to protect. Now it was all the girls at the clinic. Marisol needed to ensure that it would always be there for girls like Dulce, girls like herself.

VanDyke came on the line. “Miss Rivera,” he said. “What a pleasure.”

“Call me Marisol,” she said. “I've got a counteroffer for you.”

“By all means,” he said.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” she said. “I assume you'd like the donation to be anonymous, but you'll want the tax paperwork for your records.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand?” he said. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I'm bargaining for a hard driver.”

He chuckled. “Miss—Marisol, that's considerably more than I was hoping to spend. Far above market rates.”

“Supply and demand,” Marisol said. “The negotiation cost is admittedly high, but that's because you want a service that isn't presently on the market.”

“I could see myself spending maybe a hundred thousand,” VanDyke said.

Marisol slumped against the back of the lobby couch. The rush from the job and the fight and the search for Nalissa had rattled her adrenals, leaving her slightly dizzy.

“Jeremy,” she said. “You said you don't do second choices. Neither do I. It's a quarter million. Take it or leave it.” She wasn't selling it right. She was too used to being a hard-assed madam, and she had lost her touch as a sex worker: the lure, the promise, the fantasy. That was what they paid for.

With her last bit of energy, she mustered the will to flirt. “And frankly, I hope you'll say yes, because I think we could have a very good time together.”

“You are quite a businesswoman, Miss Rivera,” he said. “I'll let you know.”

* * *

She awoke the next morning on top of her covers in the gray jumpsuit. She had a text from Jeremy VanDyke that simply said:
yes.

Chapter 18

“I
can't believe that motherfucker stole our money!” Tyesha raged.

It was late the next night, and Marisol's team was assembled in the office.

“I'll break Nalissa's fucking neck if I see her,” Kim said.

“I told you not to trust that bitch,” Tyesha said.

“I know,” Marisol said. “But if ‘that bitch' hadn't driven off with our money, I'd be in jail, and NYPD would have the cash.”

“It's my fault,” Jody said. “For fucking up that first burglary.”

“No,” Marisol said. “We can't think that way. We took risks here, and out of twelve robberies, we got away clean with eleven.”

“But what about the clinic?” Tyesha asked.

“I've agreed to do the call with VanDyke,” Marisol said. “That'll solve our mortgage crisis. And while I'm at it, let's do the hit.”

“Hell, yeah!” Kim said.

“As long as I'm just the muscle and not fucking with locks,” Jody said.

“So what's the plan?” Tyesha asked.

“VanDyke's safe is probably a Superlative,” Marisol said. “The top model has a fingerprint ID.”

“How do we get past something like that?” Kim asked.

“We need someone to make us a pair of latex fingerprint gloves with VanDyke's prints.”

“I know this genius scientist,” Tyesha said. “She did this safer sex art installation with latex. I know she could do gloves.”

Marisol shook her head. “I need someone I know and trust.”

“Trust?” Tyesha said, cocking her head to one side. “This woman's bread and butter is custom kinky sex toys for rich people. She's all about discretion.”

“Not good enough,” Marisol said. “I'm the boss, and there's only one guy I feel comfortable bringing in. Someone I knew a long time ago.”

* * *

When Marisol first met Sergei, she was seventeen and desperate for money. Her uncle had recently been killed downstairs in their building—the police said he was robbed. His death was a relief, and Marisol planned to keep paying rent and stay there with Cristina. She'd skipped school for a week traipsing around the city looking for work. No one wanted a minor with no work experience, although an ice cream store owner offered twenty dollars for oral sex. She turned him down, deciding she wouldn't do it for less than fifty.

The next day she put on her mom's polyester print minidress that was so old, it had come back into style. Her chest was nearly spilling out of the damn thing, but that was okay.

She flirted with the token agent to get into the subway, and rode to Times Square. If she could meet a few different guys this week, she'd be able to pay the bills and could stay in school.

She'd flipped through a New York tourist guidebook, and picked a three-star hotel with a restaurant and a large bar.

She held her head high and acted like she belonged there, just like her mother had taught her. She found an empty bar stool, and sat down. She had barely ordered a soda, when two women in tight dresses—one blond, the other brunette—came and looked her up and down.

“Who the hell are you?” the brunette asked, reminding Marisol of girls who'd tried to fight her in junior high.

“Mercedes Lopez,” Marisol said, acting bored.

“Like we give a fuck,” the blonde said. “This is Sergei's territory. You can't sell your underage ass here without permission.”

“I don't see how it's his or your concern,” Marisol said.

“I could cut that pretty face of yours, and then we'd see what's your concern,” the brunette said.

“Security,” the blonde hissed to her friend, and glanced at a man in a suit looking at them.

“We'll be back, jailbait,” the brunette said, and they sauntered away.

Marisol's heart pounded. Maybe this was a bad idea. The bar was filled with attractive women in their twenties. Why would anyone pick her?

The bartender brought the soda and took her moist, crumpled dollar bills.

Marisol felt a creeping sense of panic. If she didn't get rent money by the first, they'd get evicted. Cristina might end up in foster care.

Half an hour later, a guy came over. “Good evening,” he said in an Eastern European accent. “I'm Sergei. You are new around here, yes?”

Marisol nodded as the bartender handed him a clear drink in a short glass.

“All the girls here work for me,” Sergei said. “No freelancers.”

Marisol nodded, reaching for her purse. “It's nice to have met you.”

“Here's some advice,” he said, taking her arm. His grip was firm, but not painful. “All the hotels on this block are mine. You can try farther away, but some of those guys are less of a gentleman than me, yes?”

“Can I work for you?” Marisol asked.

“Trial basis,” he said. “You don't work for anyone else or on your own. I say which hotel. I send clients. You please them. You collect three hundred each and I get fifty percent.”

“Fifty percent?”

“I provide a lot, sweetheart,” Sergei said. “Bartender looking out for you. Security won't hassle. I provide clean room. You want to turn fifty-dollar tricks out of car in the Bronx, feel free.” He finished his drink. “I don't usually have Spanish girls, but I got a request. Can you do Spanish accent? Your New York accent sounds cheap. Hurry and decide. I've got to go.”

“Can I try it out?” she asked.

“Here's my phone number,” he said, and gave her a scrap of paper. No name. “I'll be back when the bar closes. Be here.”

* * *

Marisol cringed with the recollection. Everyone must've known she was a total amateur.

She'd said yes, and Sergei ordered her a strong drink. The alcohol helped her loosen up. All she could remember about the first guy was the anxious, excited feeling in her stomach, the semi-drunk lightness in her head, and the sense that she was the heroine in a movie. She imitated looks she'd seen in music videos and dialogue she'd heard on television, visualizing her actions and expressions from the outside, watching herself as if through a camera. When it came to sex, living with her uncle had taught her how to check out—to exhale her consciousness from the confines of her skin. She would be wandering among the blades of the ceiling fan, tightrope-walking along the edge of the windowsill, numb from the neck down.

The three hundred dollars afterward almost made her laugh. Five minutes of fucking? Although most clients didn't turn out to be as easy as the first one. Some took longer or creeped her out.

She began to cut school. She never graduated, but she managed to support herself and Cristina.

She got to know the girls. Many had started out with awful pimps. Marisol saw it at the clinic, too. Young women beaten, raped, strung out.

Sergei offered protection and kept his word. On the other hand, he made big money, while they did all the hard work.

* * *

When Marisol walked into the same Times Square hotel bar looking for Sergei, it was like a time warp. The streets outside had been sanitized of the sex trade, but the bar was the same. It was Tuesday, but it could have been any night of the week. From the bartender's uniform, to the brands of alcohol in front of the mirror, to the red vinyl upholstery on the bar stools, nothing had changed in twenty years.

She had tried Sergei's old cell phone number, but it now belonged to a man with a Boston accent. Maybe Sergei was in jail, or dead, or had retired on the money she and the other girls had made for him.

She came into the bar when they opened at 5 p.m., and planned to stay until closing time at 4 a.m. if needed. She called to check in on Dulce, and got an earful about the girl's newly established goals in life. After that, she pulled out a grant application. At 7 p.m., she got hungry, and ordered a miserable plate of buffalo wings.

After finishing the grant application, she itched to work on the clinic's financials. But she needed privacy for that, so instead she proofread the clinic's newsletter copy. Each article reinforced her carefully crafted picture of success and stability. Some of it was true. Overall, their assets had increased considerably with the $600K they'd gotten from the gala, and they were pushing two million with the bump from online donations. But, as promised, she had put those funds in a high-yield account where she couldn't touch it.

By 9 p.m., she was stir-crazy, sick of looking from the newsletter to the door, but afraid she would miss Sergei.

He finally strolled in. Gray at the temples. His face heavily lined, and his pores showing the effects of alcohol and cigarettes.

He walked past her table to the bar and spoke to two women in clingy dresses. The bartender brought Sergei's usual drink.

After he emptied the low tumbler, he escorted the women to the door. Marisol walked toward him. “Sergei,” Marisol said. “It's been a long time.”

The women glared at Marisol as they left.

“Nearly twenty years,” he said. “You look well, Mercedes.”

The alias took her back. Margarita, Mónica, Magdalena—she had used several.

“It's Marisol,” she said. “Marisol Rivera.”

The way he looked at her when he greeted her was more like an appraisal than a leer. She felt an odd combination of irritation and nostalgia. Some part of her wanted to tell him she was getting $250,000 for an upcoming client. Platinum-level pussy, as her girls would have called it.

“Can we talk business?” she asked.

Sergei sat down across from her. “Only for a short time,” he said, looking at his Rolex.

“I need a particular service,” she said. “Someone who can duplicate something for me. Someone good and discreet. Of course, you'd get a finder's fee.”

“I know a lot of people,” Sergei said. “What needs duplicating?”

“I have a set of fingerprints on a glass, and I need to be able to reproduce them.”

Sergei shrugged. “I might know a guy who knows a guy who can make a pair of gloves.”

“Gloves would be good,” Marisol said.

“Finder's fee is five thousand,” he said.

Marisol blinked. “Five thousand?”

“Supply and demand,” Sergei said. “If you come to me after twenty years, you don't know anyone else.”

“I don't trust anyone else,” Marisol said. “When we worked together, you were always straight-up.”

“Look at you. Your table full of papers. Whatever you do now, you got no network,” Sergei said. “I'm supply and I have monopoly. Five thousand. Take it or leave it.”

“I'll take it.”

“Let me make a call,” Sergei said. He stood and turned his back to her, speaking briefly on the phone in a Slavic language. He turned back to Marisol. “You have the prints?”

She nodded.

“I'll be back in half an hour,” he said.

“I thought you said you might know a guy who might know a guy,” Marisol said.

“For five thousand I know a guy,” he said and walked out.

As Marisol collected her papers, she marveled at how well he read people.

Thirty-five minutes later, Sergei walked in beside a young man with broad cheekbones and slightly Eurasian eyes. He had bleached hair, trendy clothes, and bling jewelry. Sergei introduced him as Gavril.

“Did you bring the prints?” the older man asked.

She dug into her handbag and pulled out a box. Carefully she took out the glass and handed it to Gavril. He held it up to the light to see the prints, but the bar was dim. He pulled out a flashlight from his pocket and examined the glass. Sergei asked him a question, and Gavril gave a curt answer.

“He can do it by Saturday,” Sergei translated. “Ten thousand.”

“The work is guaranteed?” Marisol asked.

“Gavril is the best,” Sergei said.

Marisol looked Sergei straight in the face. “I want the glass back, and no extra copies,” she said.

“You have my word,” Sergei said. “The money?”

Marisol pulled out an envelope. “Half up-front?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, and pocketed the cash.

“Five for you, five for Gavril,” she said. “You're not gonna count it?”

“I have complete confidence,” he said.

* * *

Marisol dreamed of the beach.
La playa
in Puerto Rico. Not her grandmother's house, but familiar. Waves crashed nearby, and she dozed in the afternoon sun. She could feel the gentle press of another body beside her. A welcome hand reached for hers in the sand. A soft kiss on her forehead. Raul.

“Voy en el agua, guapa
,
”
he whispered.

She squinted into the sunlight. “Don't go without me,” she said.

Raul stood over her, smiling, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the sky.
“Pues, ven.”

He reached a hand out and she took it. He helped her up, practically lifting her. As she rose, sand stuck to the back of her body.

They held hands. Raul's palm was cool and smooth as they walked to the ocean's edge.

A wave lapped their feet. The water was warm, and they waded in. They were simultaneously looking out to sea and looking into each other's eyes. They waded deeper, and with each wave, more of the sand on Marisol's body fell away.

When she was up to her chest, a tall wave came, and Raul lifted her up. It crashed over them, washing the remaining sand from her back. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, and they kissed. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pressed her tongue into his mouth, slid a hand down the back of his swim trunks.