Uptown Thief (19 page)

“Slow down,” he said gently in Spanish. “I love you. There's no rush. We have all the time in the world.”

A massive wave crashed over them, and Marisol startled awake.

She blinked against the weak New York morning sun. Everything was unfamiliar. The feel of the sheets under her face. Equally unfamiliar was the amount and direction of the morning light. She had fallen asleep on her office couch.

The dream came back to her. Had she really dreamed of Raul? That he said he loved her? She could still feel the imaginary press of his palm in hers, the salty taste of his tongue in her mouth.

A romantic moment on the beach? What the hell was wrong with her?

Eva would say her subconscious was longing for him. That she was trying to sexualize it away, but it was deeper than that.
Love. All the time in the world.

“There must be another explanation.” Marisol murmured the thought aloud and stood up. The dream spooked her. She'd never had that kind of dream before.

The date.

She had started to dial his number a few times to cancel, but with all the preparations for VanDyke, she was never in the right frame of mind to talk to Raul. Of course not. She put away her pillow and blanket into the cabinet above the couch.

She was about to service and rob a billionaire. She didn't have time for an uptown hookup, let alone a real date. Today was Wednesday. The date was for Friday.

The dream was a warning, she decided as she headed upstairs. Every day she delayed, he was getting ideas, building up some kind of romance in his head. It was all there in the last part of the dream. She just wanted to fuck him, but he was talking about love. She recalled the salsa riff he sang on the street, the ridiculous smile on his face. She had to shut this down.

Once inside her apartment, she scrolled through her phone contacts for Raul's number. She called and was grateful to get his voice mail.

“It's Raul,” his voice said.
“Déjame un mensaje
.
”
Hearing him speak Spanish caught her off guard and brought back the dream. The voice mail beeped, and it took her a second to recall herself.

“Hello? Raul?” she said. “I—well, thanks so much for the invite, but I won't be able to make it Friday. It's me. Marisol? And I'm calling about our—the
mofongo
. Anyway, work's just piling up, and—I apologize. Take it easy, okay?”

She hung up the phone, flooded with relief.

* * *

Friday night, Marisol and her team went over intel on VanDyke, and possible timelines for the robbery.

Tyesha walked in late and slammed her bag down on the coffee table.

“Do you know what I fucking heard downstairs?” she asked. “One of the girls told me Nalissa's in the Bronx spending our money.”

“Leave it alone,” Marisol said. “We need to focus on VanDyke.”

Kim agreed. “That backstabber is so small in our world right now.”

Tyesha sat down, and Marisol continued with the security specs.

“If VanDyke's got the safe with the retina technology, we're fucked,” Marisol said. “Just go to Plan B: Get the hell out.”

“Or just whack him on the head,” Jody said. “And hold his eye to the safe.”

“Absolutely not.” Marisol shook her head. “If we get caught, I want nonviolent robbery charges. And let's limit the physical contact. The bodysuits are awkward and you have women's hands. We want him to think you're all guys. Keep your distance. Tie us up, then get to work on the safe.”

“Got it,” Jody said.

“If we're lucky,” Marisol said, “we'll get the fingerprint safe. You get three chances, then it locks down for twenty-four hours. Some trip an additional alarm.”

The phone on her desk buzzed.

“You have a visitor,” Serena said over the intercom.

Marisol looked at the clock. Seven thirty p.m. She wasn't expecting anyone.

“Raul Barrios,” Serena said.

“What does he want?” Jody asked.

“Isn't it obvious?” Tyesha asked.

“Cut the shit,” Marisol told them. She pressed the Talk button on the intercom. “I'll be right out.”

She put on her blazer and went into the reception area.

“Raul, I'm sorry about tonight—”

“You're not ready,” Raul said. “You told me at the gala, and I shouldn't have pushed.” He handed her a bag.
“Mofongo
,
”
he said. “I promised you dinner tonight. I want you to remember how I keep my promises.”

“That's so sweet,” she said. “I just—”

“Really, it's okay,” he said. “You like me but you're scared. You got a million reasons why this thing between us can't work. But don't forget to think of me when you feel your arteries clogging.” He gestured to the greasy bag in her hand.

She laughed. “I will.”

“Good night,
guapa
,” he said, and closed the outer office door behind him.

Serena pretended to look busy at her desk.

Marisol pulled out a chunk of
mofongo
and nibbled it, letting her tongue linger on the rich mashed plantains and savory pork. It was the best she'd had in years. She walked back into the office wearing her best
don't-fuck-with-me
expression.

“What the hell is that?” Jody asked.

“And why does it smell so good?” Kim asked.

“None of your damn business,” Marisol said.

“Sure, it is,” Tyesha said. “I need to know how to get some man I'm not fucking to come drop off dinner for me after I turn him down for a date.”

* * *

The following night, Marisol watched as Sergei walked up to the bar and the bartender poured him a drink.

It was eleven fifteen on Saturday night, and she'd been waiting several hours, her anxiety increasing. She still had a knot in her chest when he sat down across from her.

“I asked around,” he said. “Looks like you're management now. You always wanted my job.” He gave the slightest hint of a smile. “But you need to control your people.”

“What people?” Marisol asked.

“Some girl in the Bronx,” he said. “Alyssa or something. Says she worked for you and now has her own operation. Maybe five girls out of a house. She's pissing people off up there.”

“She's what?”

“I have more bad news,” he said, interrupting her. He slid a large padded manila envelope across the table to her. It had a lump in the middle, like a stubby snake that had swallowed a cube. “Gavril got deported this week. I'm sorry. Here's your money and your cup.”

“And the gloves?”

“They picked him up before he could do the job,” Sergei said with a shrug. “I was lucky to get your cup back.”

“Do you know anyone else?” Marisol asked.

“Not anyone I can vouch for,” Sergei said. “Maybe this is best. Most girls from this business don't look so good at your age. Nobody pays me to give a fuck, but I'm glad.”

Marisol opened the package. It had the box with the cup and a much thinner cash envelope.

“Sergei.” Marisol put a hand on his arm. “Where's the rest of the cash?”

“You paid for work that didn't happen,” he said. “I give money back. You paid for introduction, I introduced you. No refund.”

“You've got to be kidding me,” Marisol said.

“Go back to your paperwork job,” he said and took a last swallow of his drink. “You do charity work, not me. Nothing is free.” He stood up. “Take care of yourself, Marisol Rivera.”

He turned abruptly and left.

She stuffed her things into the briefcase, tossed a twenty on the table, and rushed after Sergei.

But by the time she'd gathered her stuff and gotten out onto the street, he was gone.

She tried calling Eva, but got no answer. She caught a cab to Eva's house and pressed the buzzer several times.

“Do you know what time it is?” Eva asked after Marisol had come up the three flights of stairs. She stood there in a raggedy bathrobe and motioned for Marisol to come in.

“The pimp's contact couldn't make the gloves,” Marisol said as she followed Eva through the dim living room into the kitchen. “But he kept the finder's fee.”

“You can't trust a pimp,” Eva said. She put two mugs of water into the microwave.

“I figured if he didn't take advantage of me at seventeen, he wouldn't now,” Marisol said.

Eva prepared cups of chamomile tea for both of them, and put milk into hers. Marisol took hers plain. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was cluttered with papers, laundry, and knickknacks.

“Now what?” Eva asked.

“We'll do the heist,” Marisol said. “Maybe he'll have a regular safe.”

“Marisol,” Eva said. “You've done everything in your power to save the clinic. Some things are beyond your control. You're not God.”

“Of course not,” Marisol said. “If I was God, women would get paid to sit on our asses and think profound thoughts. We'd only fuck people who turned us on. But as long as the female ass outearns the female brain, there are gonna be sex workers who need our clinic.”

“I know,” Eva said. “But we started this clinic in better times. We can start another one when the economy picks back up.”

“Not after all the years we've put in,” Marisol said. “We're one fuck away from owning the clinic free and clear. Stop trying to talk me out of it.” She took a sip of her tea and scalded the roof of her mouth.

“Then do the date with him and skip the heist,” Eva said.

“I can't!” Marisol said, slamming down her teacup. “I can't live with myself if I go over there and fuck him and don't even try for a bigger score. I'm not like Tyesha and Kim. Fucking him won't be fun or funny or sexy for me.”

“I know,” Eva said.

“And I'm not like Jody, either,” Marisol said. “She's the tall ice queen. People expect her to be in charge. They pay her to push them around. I'm the Latina. I'm supposed to be fiery but submissive. I'm done playing that role. Especially with some rich white guy who is only willing to fuck me if he's paying.”

“Then don't do any of it,” Eva said. “Don't fuck him, and don't rob him, either.”

Marisol leaned back in her chair. “But if we're robbing him, then that makes it sexy,” she said. “At least sexy enough to go through with it.”

“Because secrets are sexy?” Eva asked.

“Because power is sexy,” Marisol said. “Heisting Jeremy VanDyke is totally fucking sexy.” She ran her tongue across the tender spot where the tea had burned her mouth.

“You're determined to do this?” Eva asked.

“We've got a shot at a billionaire,” Marisol said. “I'm determined to try. This could be the game changer.”

Eva sighed and sipped her tea. “Then go to your team,” she said. “Doesn't Tyesha know someone who works with latex?”

“The last thing I need,” Marisol said, “is some friend of Tyesha's shooting off their mouth.”

“How can you trust a pimp you haven't seen in decades, but not your own team?” Eva asked. “Tyesha's smart. She's gonna run this clinic soon. Have some confidence in her.”

“That's too much of a risk,” Marisol said.

“You don't have a choice,” Eva said. “That is, if you really wanna heist this guy.”

Marisol gritted her teeth and dialed Tyesha's number.

Chapter 19

T
hat Wednesday—three nights later—Marisol stood in front of an upscale building on Central Park East. Her turquoise Dilani Mara dress peeked out from beneath the full-length fur coat, and made her look like she belonged there.

The evening was chilly. At the opening of the coat, Marisol felt a crisp breeze through the silk against her skin.

A dark limousine pulled up to the curb.

“Good evening, miss,” VanDyke's driver said as he opened the door for her.

“Good evening,” she said, lifting the hems of the rented gown and coat, and sliding into the backseat.

He was Latino, gray beneath his chauffeur cap. Under other circumstances she would have made conversation. Not tonight. Tonight, she wore big shades and was picked up at a random apartment. Gloves would yield no fingerprints. Nothing but VanDyke's word would link her to the evening.

* * *

VanDyke had an unassuming three-story town house right next door to the thirty-floor high-rise that was his corporate headquarters downtown. In the dark, Marisol couldn't see the connecting skywalk.

As they got close to the building, Marisol texted Kim to call her. The phone rang and Marisol picked up. “If my boyfriend asks,” she murmured, “I was with you tonight.”

Kim laughed, and hung up.

Marisol continued to hold a one-sided conversation, but used the phone in camera mode. The driver pressed a code into the building door, while Marisol looked away, but videotaped his fingers on the keypad. The code changed every day.

She prayed VanDyke wouldn't meet her at the door. A moment alone in the entryway would be her one, brief chance to case the place.

“What was she thinking?” Marisol said into the silent phone as she stepped into the doorway. No one came to meet her. She climbed the stairs, whispering into her phone. “Some people just don't want to hear the truth.”

Slowly, as if she was looking around with her own eyes, she pointed the phone at all of the security equipment, and lingered for close-ups.

“Mark my words,” she said. “That girl is headed for trouble.”

The stairway was hardwood, the walls were white with paintings hung on both sides. At the top of the stairs, Marisol took a slow sweep of the wide hallway with the gleaming hardwood floor, the high ceilings, wide archways, and a Ming vase in a glass case, perfectly lighted and undoubtedly alarmed. How much had it sold for at Christie's? Three quarters of a billion?

“I've gotta go,” Marisol said into the phone, and pressed Send, forwarding all the video to the team.

Marisol got a little tingle as she stood at the door. She hadn't serviced a client in over a decade. She waited. She took off the shades. She got warm and took off her coat. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes.

Damn! She could have done the safe herself. Fourteen minutes. Fifteen. Sixteen minutes of standing at the top of a landing, looking at two closed doors and a Ming vase. Sixteen minutes in five-inch heels.

Even in her invincibility shoes, her feet began to hurt. She had to pee. Twenty minutes. What the fuck? Her irritation rose, in spite of all that he would pay and all that they might heist him for. Maybe he was twenty minutes late for everything. Maybe that was just how billionaires got down. Everybody else could just fucking wait. Maybe everyone in the world was a sex worker to a billionaire. Marisol was just about ready to break the glass in order to piss into the Ming vase, when VanDyke opened one of the doors.

* * *

Tyesha, Kim, and Jody had watched the video Marisol sent, and had just finished researching the alarm system. Kim had packed all their tools in a backpack, and they were pulling their cell phones off the chargers.

The three of them stepped out of the clinic in jeans and sweatshirts. Kim carried the bag with male bodysuits and men's clothes for her and Tyesha. Jody was tall enough to pass for male, and had just needed to bind her breasts. Tyesha had a gym bag that contained three ski masks, three sets of shades, and several big duffels, in case the haul was large. They had also bought some fake stubble to put on their upper lips under the ski masks. Kim had the latex fingerprint gloves in her purse. Tyesha's contact had made them for three grand.

They would take a cab to a midtown restaurant. A few blocks farther uptown, they had parked a van around the corner from VanDyke's place.

“Candi Jones!” someone called from across the street.

Thug Woofer stood alone beside his SUV, waving for her to come over.

“Get rid of him,” Jody said as she raised her hand to hail a cab.

Woof trotted across the busy street with a bouquet in his hand, dodging traffic.

“I'm sorry to roll up unannounced,” he said.

“Woof, what are you doing here?”

“Look,” he said. “I don't mean to bother you on your job, but I just wanted to apologize.” He looked at Kim and Jody. “Nice to see you ladies again. Candi, can we have a minute?”

“I'll be right back,” Tyesha said. She stepped out of earshot with Woof.

He handed her the fifteen red roses. “I'm sorry I acted like such a stupid motherfucker when I met you. I came to ask for another chance. If not, I understand, but I wanted to let you know that I'm sorry and you deserve better.”

“You got that right,” she said. Over his shoulder, she saw several cabs pass Kim and Jody.

“I'm hoping you'll reconsider being my date to the Oscars on Sunday,” he said.

Tyesha's mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”

“Your madam didn't tell you?” he asked.

“I would've remembered,” Tyesha said. “The Oscars?”

“In less than a week.”

“Hell, yeah,” she said.

His face lit up, although his smile was almost shy. “I appreciate the second chance. Do you know how many times I've driven by here hoping to run into you?”

“Why didn't you just come in?”

“And ask for who? Candi Jones? What's your real name, girl?”

“What's your real name, boy? Thug Woofer?”

“Everybody calls me Woof,” he said.

“What does your mama call you?” Tyesha asked.

“I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours,” he said with a sly grin.

“Tyesha,” she said.

“Now, there's a black girl name.” He laughed.

“Quit stalling,” she said. “What's your real name?”

“Melvyn,” he said. “Don't tell nobody.”

“Can I call you Mel?”

“You can call me Woof,” he said, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Okay, Woof,” Tyesha said.

He nodded. She looked out at the midtown traffic, watching a car nearly run into the side of a pickup truck.

“So, what's up with your friends?” he asked. “They graduate students, too?”

“No,” Tyesha said, the lie slipping out easily. “Just working on their taxes.”

“Y'all pay taxes?” Woof asked.

“Of course,” Tyesha said. “They came with me because at home they'd procrastinate.”

“They roommates?” Woof asked. “Aw, hell naw!” he said, and Tyesha could see realization dawning. He laughed uproariously. “Brandon and Mike was fucking some dykes.”

“Please don't tell them—” Tyesha said.

“Plenty dudes would pay for two girls,” Woof said. “Or just watch.”

“It's not like that,” Tyesha said. “There's work and pleasure. They don't mix it.”

“You gay, too?” Woof asked. “That why you turned me down?”

“It's not that,” Tyesha said. “I'm just turned off by men who act like the world is just one big pussy waiting to fuck them.”

Woof laughed, and a taxi beeped behind him.

“Gotta go,” Tyesha said.

Woof handed her his card. “Text me your info for the plane ticket to LA.”

Tyesha nodded and waved good-bye as he crossed the street to his SUV.

She got into the cab.

“What the hell?” Jody asked as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

“He invited me to the Oscars and I said yes!” Tyesha blurted.

“Fuck, yeah!” Kim said.

“Marisol's gonna kill you for dating a client,” Jody said, her jaw tight.

“Aww, he gave you roses.” Kim gestured to the bouquet in Tyesha's lap.

“Are you two fucking kidding me?” Jody said. “We need to focus.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the cab dropped them a couple of blocks from a nondescript gray cargo van. Marisol had rented it under a false name with cash, splattered mud on the plates, and parked on a side street. The three women opened the back door and climbed in.

Kim unzipped the bag. “Okay, ladies,” she said. “Time to get manly.”

* * *

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” VanDyke said. He stepped through the doorway in a blue oxford shirt with an open neck and a pair of navy slacks.

Marisol smiled and shrugged.

“You look gorgeous,” he said, looking her up and down. “Let me take that.” He reached for her coat and led her into the hall. “I hope you've brought an appetite.”

“I've brought more than one,” she said.

She looked him over. He kept his body in shape. His face was a little pale and narrow-featured. Involuntarily, she thought of Raul.

VanDyke put a hand on her back, as if to steer her down the hallway, his cool palm against her warm flesh.

The entire apartment was characterized by separation. You could wait in the front hall and only see the Ming vase. The central hallway was nothing but doors. She asked to use the restroom and VanDyke opened one of the doors for her.

“I hope you like Burmese food,” he said, after she came back out. He opened a door on the opposite wall that led to a cozy dining nook with a view of the East River. The table was set for two with a pair of stemmed glasses, a bottle of wine, and candles.

“My personal chef does great South and Southeast Asian cuisine,” he said.

“Is all the help next door in the kitchen or something?” Marisol asked as she sat down.

He laughed. “I gave everyone the night off. The chef left it warming.” He opened the cabinet in the wall beside the table, and spicy-smelling steam rushed out. A large platter held portions of food in bright yellows and reds. Even the rice was multicolored. White, red, and black.

“I hope you're not a vegetarian,” he said.

“Not at all. I love meat.” She smiled and followed his lead as he reached for the chicken dish. Other than the unusually colored rice, the food looked like a combination of Indian and Thai.

In some ways, Marisol hated this most. Pretending it was a dinner date. Like he wasn't paying and the sex wasn't a sure thing. Part of her wanted them to fuck first and get it over with so she could enjoy the meal.

“Would you like some more wine?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” She lifted her glass.

She drank.
Relax, Marisol
, she encouraged herself.
Swirl the wine on your tongue. Take it slow, and give the team time to prepare.

“I must tell you,” he said, as he finished a bite of Khow suey, a spicy meat and noodle dish. “Your business concept is brilliant.”

“Thank you,” Marisol said. “I've always believed that inclusion of the nonprofit industry can create a value added bonus to services that private-sector investors consume.” She drank. “The nonprofit provides the services that protect my workforce, and the tax write-off protects wealth for the consumer. It's win-win.”

“About the workforce,” he said. “What's the long-term incentive? Not everyone can move into management. What's the retirement plan?”

“Most girls want personal benefactors in permanent arrangements.”

“What?” VanDyke asked. “You mean, as in some kind of mistress arrangement?”

“No,” Marisol said. “Permanent—as in marriage.”

“You consider marriage a personal benefactor arrangement?” he asked.

“Happens all the time.” Marisol shrugged. “Let me take you away from all this. In the movies, it's almost cliché.”

“A retirement plan that the corporation doesn't pay for,” VanDyke said. “You have the mind of a Wharton MBA inside the body of a fifties pin-up.”

“They're not supposed to go together?”

“It just seems that women who look like you become actresses or singers, or trophy wives.”

“I tried the trophy part,” Marisol said. “The guy would have married me, but it was boring.”

“That's what I mean,” VanDyke said. “Other women would have settled for that, but not you. Why not?”

“For the same reason you wouldn't,” Marisol said.

“I couldn't find a woman to keep me in the style to which I'm accustomed.”

“Oh, come on, Jeremy. You're good-looking. And the billionaire thing could be a big turn-on for some wealthy older woman.”

He laughed.

“What if I could find you a buyer?” Marisol asked. “Would you settle? Would you settle for Pilates every day and shopping and charity luncheons? You wouldn't last an hour. You'd be bored out of your mind. And insulted. You'd feel like your genius was being wasted. Then, what's the difference between you and me except gender? And that I'm better-looking.”

“I thought you said I was good-looking,” Jeremy said.

“You are,” Marisol said. “You're a very sexy guy, Jeremy. I noticed it when I met you. There's this pull toward you. Part charisma. Part power. There you are in the suit, and suddenly I want to be alone with you.”