Uptown Thief (30 page)

“You just don't get it,” Marisol said.

“Oh, I definitely get it,” Cristina said. “You had to rescue me, because it was the only way you could survive what happened—what
Tío
—”

“Don't say his name!” Marisol yelled.

“You don't want to hear his name?” Cristina said. “Then tell me what the hell happened to him. One day he was there. The next he was gone. We never even had a funeral.”

“We didn't have money for a funeral, so I just left him in the morgue,” Marisol said. “He got mugged in the hallway. You know that.”

“Stop lying,” Cristina said. “I'm not eleven anymore, but you're still fucking trying to protect me. I knew you weren't telling the truth even back then. I don't know if you killed him, I just know you were different that night.”

“How would you know how I was that night?” Marisol asked. “You were asleep.”

“Are you kidding me?” Cristina asked. “I was never asleep. Do you think anyone could sleep through what he did to you? I heard everything.”

“What?” Marisol asked. It was as if the humid air grew suddenly still.

“The only dignity I could give you was to pretend that I didn't hear what happened.” Cristina's voice was barely above a whisper. “I knew your only consolation was thinking that you had protected me. How could I take that away from you?”

“You knew?” Marisol asked. “You knew the whole time?”

“Of course I knew,” Cristina said. “I knew you did it for me. The only gift I could give you in return was to let you be the hero. To let you believe you had sheltered me from all of it. It was obvious you stayed to protect me.” Tears ran down her face as she spoke, but her voice didn't shake. “When you got older, you could have run away. I know it crushed you that you couldn't protect yourself. At least I could let you believe that you had protected me.”

“I did protect you.” Marisol shot up off the couch. “He never touched you.”

“I know I was the lucky one!” Cristina said. “But you can't honestly believe that it was a party to hear him every night. To live in constant fear that I would be next. I had nightmares of my own. Nightmares that he'd come home and you wouldn't be there. I know why you didn't date, or go out past five. You had to be home every night when I was.”

“I can't believe you knew,” Marisol said, her voice choking up. “But of course you did. The room was tiny. Nobody sleeps that soundly.”

“It was how I protected you,” Cristina said. “I played the role of the saved one, so you could be the savior. Like in church. Christ died for us. Was crucified and suffered for us. But it wasn't noble. It was fucked up. Nobody should have to go through what you did. What we both did. That night he died something was different. I knew but I couldn't say. How could I explain that I had been awake as always?”

“What was different?”

“Every night you'd wait in bed,” Cristina said. “Your bed closer to the door, like a sentry. He would have to get past you to get to me. But that night—”

Marisol cut her off. “I wasn't in the bedroom.”

“At first I was terrified,” Cristina said. “Were you leaving me exposed? I heard the apartment door open and close. I just lay in bed and prayed that everything would be okay.”

Marisol shook her head. “He started looking at you. So skinny, but you were sprouting breasts. I know you tried to hide them.”

“They weren't hard to hide,” Cristina said.

“But somehow he knew you were developing,” Marisol said. “I could tell it flipped a switch in his sick head.”

“I was panicked,” Cristina said.

“I knew I'd rather die than let it happen to you,” Marisol said. “But then I thought, what good would that do? If I died, then there would be nobody to protect you. That fucker needed to die, not me.”

“But how did you manage it?” Cristina asked. “He was such a big guy.”

“I would lie there,” Marisol said, “when he was in our bedroom, planning it. I didn't know how to get a gun. I wasn't strong enough to throw him out the window, even when he was drunk. But I could get a kitchen knife.”

“A young Latina buying some kitchen shit,” Cristina said. “Unremarkable in our hood.”

“I was seventeen, but I could have been ten,” Marisol said. “That day I bought four things at the supermarket: a kitchen knife, a flashlight, a knife sharpener, and an onion.”

“You bought an onion?” Cristina asked.

“Getting only hardware might look suspicious,” Marisol said. “Why kill him if I ended up in juvie and you went to foster care? I had to do it and get away with it.”

“You stabbed him down on the fourth floor?” Cristina said.

“No,” Marisol said. “I waited for him at the top of the landing, and when I stabbed him, he fell down the stairs.”

“You must have waited for hours,” Cristina said.

“My hands sweat so much in the gloves,” Marisol recalled. “I held the knife in one hand, and the flashlight in the other one. Every time the downstairs door opened, my heart raced. I couldn't watch from the window because the light on the stoop was burned out. Finally, he came up the stairs. Do you remember how creaky the steps were on the last flight up to our apartment?”

“I hated everything about that place,” Cristina said.

“And I smelled him,” Marisol said. “His particular brand of rum. His particular stink of sweat. The sound of his keys jingling. And as he neared the top of the stairs, I just—I switched on the flashlight and flew at him with the knife.”

Marisol recalled how the surprise of the sudden light in his face was surpassed only by the shock of the blade in his chest. His eyes and mouth widened in slow motion as he gasped and fell back, tumbling down the stairs. As she snapped off the light, she caught the glint of his keys on the landing, and scooped them up in the dark.

“Was he dead?” Cristina asked. “Were you sure?”

Marisol shook her head. Before the sound had even stopped, she had stepped back into the apartment. In the quiet that followed the thudding of a falling man, she locked the door with her own keys. She waited for some commotion of neighbors. Some siren or flashing light.

She had sat by the door, terrified that a bleeding and wounded thing would drag its drunken self up the stairs and claw at the door. “I held his keys in my fist to remind me that he couldn't just walk in. I was ready to stab that motherfucker as many times as it took.”

“You never actually told me he was dead,” Cristina said. “You just told me he wasn't ever coming back.”

“That's what mattered,” Marisol said.

“I still have nightmares sometimes,” Cristina said, her face puckering.

“Me too,” Marisol said.

“Thank you,” Cristina whispered through her tears.

Marisol could only nod, as she cried, too.

Chapter 30

M
arisol had been in Cuba for nearly two months. Her skin glowed copper, and she'd put on a little weight in her belly from all the slow meals.

Tyesha had gone back after a week, Kim and Jody after two weeks, but Marisol had extended her ticket twice. She also filed for an extension with the IRS, and would have until October to make a paper trail for all the cash “donations.” Meanwhile, she took the positive weekly e-mails from Eva and Serena at face value. The clinic was finally stable.

She had gone to the beach and stood alone in the surf, enjoying the sound and feel of the water, the sinking of her feet into the sand. Gazing out to the horizon, she let the warm currents sway her body gently back and forth. The ocean's authentic majesty washed away the memory of her dream with Raul and the bitterness of his final drunken words to her.

The reality of love was Cristina. Marisol spent as much time as possible with her sister. Sometimes, when Cristina came in to crash from her residency, Marisol would lie on the bed next to her, reading a mystery novel in Spanish. Marisol could see that the extra hours Cristina stayed awake to visit were wearing on her. She became increasingly fatigued. This was a rare morning, when Juan was working but Cristina had a whole day off.

“Too bad Vladimir's not around to keep you busy while I've been at the hospital,” Cristina teased.

“Vladimir's been away with one of his paying girlfriends,” Marisol said. “He got back last night, I think.”

“Any chance you'll stay in Cuba for a while?”

Marisol sighed. “Maybe another week. It's already May, and I can't miss Tyesha's graduation. Besides, you and Juan are coming in December.”

“About that . . .” Cristina began.

“You're not having second thoughts, are you?” Marisol asked.

“I'm pregnant,” Cristina blurted out.

“What?” Marisol's jaw dropped. “But what about the birth control pills I've been sending?”

“There's that point-oh-one chance.”

“Such fucking bad timing,” Marisol said.

“Why are you freaking out?” Cristina asked. “This isn't a tragedy.”

“What about becoming a doctor?”

“I can be a doctor here,” Cristina said. “And have a family with Juan.”

“Cristina, don't be naïve,” Marisol said. “It's not that simple.”

“It's not that simple in the U.S.,” Cristina said. “Day care is free here. Doctors practice locally. I know lots of women doctors with kids. They're happy.”

“What about me?” Marisol asked.

Cristina shrugged. “What's keeping you in New York?”

“I'm not ready to just pack up and—”

“Why choose?” Cristina asked. “You have plenty of money now. Live there. Visit a lot.”

“You're having the baby?” Marisol said. “Is Juan pressuring you?”

“I haven't even told him,” Cristina said. “But I'm not having an abortion just because the pregnancy wasn't planned. Maybe a couple of years ago, but not now.”

“I don't want us to be apart anymore,” Marisol said.

“So don't be,” Cristina said. “I love you, Marisol, but not only you. I love Juan, and I'll love this baby.”

“You're building a family without me.”

“I'm just building a family in Cuba,” Cristina said. “You can be as big a part of it as you want. We had a good plan, but this baby changes everything. Why can't you be happy for me?”

“It was supposed to be you and me in the center of this family,” Marisol said. “Not you with some man and me as a fucking visiting aunt. What happened to
‘tú y yo siempre'
?”

She grabbed her shoes and left the house.

* * *

Marisol showed up unannounced at Vladimir's. She was ravenous for him.

After the second round of sex, he looked into her face for a while.

“What's wrong?” he asked in Spanish. “Is it because Cristina's pregnant?”

“She told you?” Marisol asked.

“Juan did.” Vladimir shrugged. “She hasn't said anything but he can tell.”

“I'm her sister. How come I couldn't tell?”

Vladimir shook his head. “You still see her as a child.”

“No I don't,” Marisol said.

“She was a child when she first came to Cuba, but she's a woman now,” Vladimir said. “You need to let her have her adult life.”

“I thought you understood wanting to be near family,” Marisol said. “Why shouldn't I expect her to come back to New York?”

“Because I'm hoping this means you'll stay in Cuba.”

Marisol laughed. “I don't think—”

“Or at least you'll come visit,” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

“I'm thinking about it,” she said as they sank back on the bed.

* * *

The moment Marisol walked in the door the next morning, Cristina leaped up off the couch.

“Marisol, I can't do this without your blessing. I told Juan I wasn't sure about keeping it.”

“You have my blessing,” Marisol said, smoothing back Cristina's hair. “I'll be the
tía
who comes from New York all the time.”

“You better mean that,” Cristina said, tears falling. “No more lame excuses, like thousands of women in New York depending on you to rob corrupt CEOs or billionaires.”

“Fine,” Marisol said, crying, as well. “But you gotta keep up your end, too. No more bullshit embargoes.”

Chapter 31

F
rom the plane's window, Marisol watched the blue-green water turn to a lacy streak of foam at the beach along the Rockaways.

After landing at JFK, she took a town car back to the city. Marisol felt relaxed, unencumbered. The driving force of her life had always been about survival. Surviving her mother and grandmother's deaths, surviving her uncle. Doing sex work to survive, and then fighting for the clinic's survival.

Marisol crossed into Manhattan after more than eight weeks in Cuba, several shades darker and better rested than she'd been in decades. Dusk fell as they sat in Monday post–rush hour traffic, and Marisol leaned back against the seat, unfazed. Her phone sat at the bottom of her purse with zero percent battery. An accident on the bridge had traffic backed up, but she didn't care. There was nowhere Marisol had to be until Tyesha's graduation the next day.

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.

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 their 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.”