Uptown Thief (4 page)

Marisol waited in the dark, at the edge of her endurance. The vent air was starting to taste stale, and her fingers and neck cramped. As she turned her head slightly she saw the little model building, and recognized the logo on it from the CEO's tech factory in Mexico. Suddenly she didn't feel discomfort, just a furious, cold resolve. Before the scandal broke, this CEO was hailed for providing “decent” jobs for formerly trafficked girls. Yet building a tech assembly factory beside a notorious red-light district simply meant rescue operations could send a never-ending supply of cheap labor. Marisol could have stood the hypocrisy of hiring sex workers for his conference. But she had read the court transcripts. According to the women involved, some corrupt members of the anti-trafficking organization had handpicked the girls they considered most attractive and then groomed them as dancers. They dangled promises of green cards to the United States. Then they just shipped them into the conference to provide sexual services to the CEOs.

The bag of cash pressed against her ankle. As always, she would send some of the funds to a group in Mexico that worked directly with the women.

She kept her eye on the edge of the logo until she heard the alarm code. She waited until all three locks were bolted into place before she unpacked herself from the vent, spilling her body out onto the floor and spitting out the flashlight.

She heard the ding of the elevator. Pulling pliers from her bag, she snipped off the ends of the screws and used epoxy to glue the four screw heads onto the front of the grate.

As she waited for it to dry, she swept her arm along the living room shelf, knocking everything onto the floor. The ceramic and glass framing a picture of the man and two teenage kids shattered on the hardwood floor, but the plastic cover on the little model building only cracked slightly. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as dropping the award seventy stories during her first theft.

* * *

It was just past midnight when Marisol's taxi crossed into Alphabet City. She drove by a couple screaming outside one of the bars: “
You were flirting with her! You were totally fucking flirting!
” They drove through traffic backed up from an accident on the Williamsburg Bridge.

With all the gentrification, the Lower East Side felt muted these days. When Marisol was a kid, Loisaida had a different soundscape: Mamas calling,
“Oye, Yunior, get your ass inside!”
Salsa blasting from apartment windows, and summertime outdoor conga jam sessions with the splash of hydrants.

Over time, many of the murals had become discolored. Red paint faded quickly, so the Puerto Rican flags were now pale pink, white, and blue. These days offered plenty of bright red neon for ATM or Under New Ownership signs. Where there used to be glinting mirrored mosaics on somebody's storefront or crazy sculpture installations in a vacant lot, now there were galleries, and graffiti lettering to advertise beauty salons that mostly catered to straight hair.

Even people's fashion colors had dulled. The visual riot of Latin clothes had yielded to subdued hipster hues. Tropical turquoise, magenta, yellow-green, and violet still appeared in women's outfits, but no longer all together.

The cab dropped her on a quiet street between Avenues D and C. She held her purse closer. It wouldn't do to get mugged on the way back from a burglary.

With the exception of that small hitch tonight, her burglary modus operandi was working flawlessly. Kim had a client who was a tech consultant with these Ivy Alpha guys. He and his lovely Asian “girlfriend” got invited to their parties. Kim could take pictures with her date in strategic locations, and Marisol would research the technology in preparation to do the hit. With wealthy Manhattanites, it was easy to pick a night they'd be out.

Half a block from her apartment, Marisol noticed a figure huddled in a doorway. The block was deserted. At first she stepped back, in case it was a setup. But as she got closer, she could see it was a young woman. Her face was hidden, but Marisol could see a bare bruised leg in a scuffed-up pair of eight-inch, silver platform boots.

“Y
ou okay, honey?” Marisol asked the girl in the doorway.

She didn't stir.

“Hello?” Marisol saw the slight rise and fall of breath. She tapped the spot she estimated to be a shoulder.

The girl shrieked and curled into a ball. “I'm sorry!
Descúlpame!
”

Marisol saw the girl's face for a second. So young. Marisol had a flashback of her own bruised teenage face, a late-night trip to the emergency room, lying to a social worker.

“It's okay,” Marisol said, placing a hand on the girl's back to calm her. “Nobody's gonna hurt you,
nena.
”

The girl released the fist that her body had become.

A hospital ID bracelet peeked from under the sling on the girl's arm. Marisol recalled the times she'd cut hers off before she returned to her uncle's house. She didn't want to get in trouble for involving the authorities.

“
Mamita,
you shouldn't stay out here,” Marisol whispered. “I'll take you to the clinic down the street.”

“They're closed for the night,” the girl muttered into the sheet that fell back from a heavily bruised face. She was Latina, with honey-blond hair, midnight at the roots.

Marisol reached out her hand. “I work there. I can get you in. Come on,
mija
. Do you need help up?”

“He said he'd kill me if I ever went there,” the girl said, tears spilling across the plum and violet of her face. “He dumped me at the ER and said to come home when I could walk. There ain't many places in the city a beat-down whore can go. He said he knew all of them and he'd be watching.”

Marisol felt a flash of rage. She remembered her uncle's words, decades ago:
I'm your only family now. Nobody else wants you
. His words stung. He had reached toward her body, but she sidestepped him easily that night since he was falling-down drunk.

“
Mira
,” Marisol said to the girl. “Of course you're scared of whoever did this, but he's not here now. There's a place for you a few buildings down.”

Marisol took the girl's good arm to help her up, but she stayed put.

“
Corazón
, look around.” Marisol knelt down. “There's nobody here but us.”

The young woman looked out at the empty street. Every car was perfectly covered in white. “He has guys on his payroll who follow us sometimes.”

Marisol knew the risk the girl would be taking to go to the clinic. Still, if she could just get her into the building, she could protect her.

“Jerry was right,” the girl said. She was on her feet now, unsteady on the torn platform boots, and still wrapped in a hospital sheet. “I really—” She took two steps, wavered, collapsed against the doorway, and threw up into the snow.

“I'm taking you in,” Marisol said. She put her arm around the girl, half-carrying her down the block to the clinic.

The girl stumbled along. Marisol unlocked the door. She turned on the lamp next to one of the couches.

In the dim light, the lobby would have looked like a living room, if not for the large reception desk and the vending machines under the stairwell. The room was filled with comfy couches and reclining chairs. A large flat-screen TV sat against the far wall, and beside it was a shelf filled with books, magazines, and board games.

The clinic was a former storefront that had sold tobacco, and whenever Marisol leaned against the walls, she detected the faint smell of sweet pipe smoke. In the rear of the lobby, a security door opened up to a stairwell. The upper floors had mostly been converted from apartments to clinic offices.

“What's your name?” Marisol asked.

“Dulce.”

“Dulce, I'm admitting you to the shelter for the night. You'll have an intake appointment in the morning. Wait here.” Marisol gestured toward the couch. Dulce collapsed onto it.

“What if they won't let me in?” Dulce asked.

“I'm the executive director,” Marisol said. “I say who comes in.”

She scanned her ID card and opened the door to the stairwell. She ran up the stairs, the oversized bag filled with stolen cash bumping against her hip.

On the second floor, Marisol saw a strip of light coming from under one of the doors. She knocked, and Dr. Eva Feldman let her in.

Marisol walked into the office and hugged her co-director. Eva was in her early sixties, her body thick and solid.

“Three more light bulbs blew out today,” Eva said, shutting the door behind Marisol.

“I know,” Marisol said. “They're defective.”

“Defective? They're black market,” Eva said. “You got ripped off.”

“No, I didn't,” Marisol insisted. “The guy made good and sent ten replacement cases. It was still a great deal.”

“Not if you factor in staff time replacing bulbs,” Eva said. She leaned her cane against the wall and sat down at her desk. Childhood polio had rendered her left leg weak and unstable.

The long, rectangular office had a split personality. On the administrative side, the desk overflowed with papers and books. The therapy side was open and peaceful, with two chairs, a couch, and a Zen sand garden on the table.

“I'm not here to debate supply issues,” Marisol said. “I've got a late admit for the shelter.”

“Sorry,” Eva said. “We're full.”

“Put her on the floor if you have to,” Marisol said with a shrug. “We have sleeping bags.”

“The floor is full, too,” Eva said.

“No problem.” Marisol began to pull cushions off the couch. “We can make a bed for her in the hallway.”

“We can't,” Eva said, standing up. “Another citation from the fire marshal would finish us.” She picked up her cane and walked over to Marisol.

“A surprise inspection is a chance we have to take,” Marisol said. She balanced the pile of pillows against her hip.

“You need to stop,” Eva said. She put a hand on Marisol's arm. “I know you're coming in from a job, full of adrenaline. You feel invincible, but the clinic is much too vulnerable.”

Marisol snatched the throw blanket off the back of the couch, and slung it over her shoulder. “I did not spend an hour crawling through a fucking air vent just to turn somebody away who needs us. This girl is vulnerable. She's half-dead with some pimp looking for her.” Marisol put her free hand on the bulge of cash in her bag.

“We have an agreement, Marisol,” Eva said. “You fund the clinic. I run the clinic. It doesn't make sense to save one girl for one night if the clinic gets shut down.”

Marisol sucked her teeth. “It doesn't make sense to you because you've never stood in that girl's shoes.”

During high school Marisol had felt the urge to vomit every time she entered her uncle's apartment.

“I am not putting that girl back out in the snow,” Marisol said.

“Then I'll put her out in the snow,” Eva said. “I won't have the whole clinic at risk because you can't see the big picture.” She pulled a list of shelters off the crammed bulletin board. “I'll call to see if there's an open bed.” Eva picked up the phone receiver.

“Her pimp is looking to finish her off,” Marisol said, hitting the Off button on the base of the phone.

“We're not the only clinic in the city, Marisol. We can't save everybody.”

“Not without a bigger building,” Marisol said.

“You're delusional,” Eva said. “Bring the girl in here and I'll break the bad news then call the shelters.”

Eva set the shelter list on the desk. Between tall stacks of client files sat a half-eaten container of Indian food.

“Never mind,” Marisol said. She put the cushions back onto the couch. “I know where to take her, and it won't break the fire code.”

“Not your apartment.”

“Don't worry about it,” Marisol said. She walked to the office door. “I just funded the clinic. You run it. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Boundaries,” Eva said, as she followed her to the door. “You ever hear of professional boundaries?”

“Is that what they taught you in law school and shrink school?” Marisol asked. She unzipped her bag and held a brick of the stolen cash aloft. “I think I would've flunked ethics.”

“Don't even go there,” Eva said.

Marisol put the cash back in her purse. “If I wake up in the morning with my TV missing, you can say ‘I told you so.' But if I wake up with a girl ready to dump the pimp, let's get her some services, okay?”

“Fine.” Eva sighed. “I'll set up an intake.”

“I love you,” Marisol said, kissing Eva on the cheek.

“Glad you're back safe,” Eva said.

Marisol trotted back down the stairs.

“Come on, Dulce,” she said when she got down to the lobby. “Change of plans.”

It took nearly fifteen minutes to climb the four flights of stairs. Marisol helped Dulce limp up past the upper floors of the clinic and the administrative offices, and then up to her apartment.

Dulce leaned against the wall of the hallway as Marisol unlocked the door. She led the girl into a cozy studio with hardwood floors. The walls were bare except for a few family photos. Above the stove, an aloe vera plant struggled to survive. Marisol only remembered to water it when she emptied the teakettle, every couple of weeks.

“I can't believe you're taking me in like this,” Dulce said, slumping into an armchair.

“Make yourself at home,
nena
,” Marisol said. She walked into the bathroom, a closet-sized box that only fit a full-sized bath because the sink was above the toilet tank. Marisol turned on the tub's hot water.

“You'll feel better after you soak in this,” Marisol said. She poured in some Epsom salts.

Through the open bathroom door, she saw Dulce looking at a photo of ten-year-old Cristina, with sandy brown hair and similar features to Marisol's. “Is that your daughter?” Dulce asked.

“My little sister.” Marisol walked back across the main room. “But I basically raised her.”

“Is this your mom?” Dulce asked, looking at a heavyset gray-haired woman on a rural porch in the Caribbean.

“No, my
abuela
,” Marisol said. She indicated a photo of a thirty-something woman in a brightly colored dress, smiling on the Staten Island Ferry. “This is my
mami
.”

“She's so pretty,” Dulce said.

“Forever young,” Marisol said. “They both died around the same time. Come on. Get in that tub.”

Marisol had longed for this as a teen. An aunt or female cousin to appear out of nowhere and rescue her. Not another worker or counselor she'd have to figure out whether she could trust, but someone who would claim her and take her in—both her and her sister.
Mija, you don't have to live like this anymore . . .

Marisol carefully closed the apartment's shades. She listened for the gentle splash of the water as she pulled all the books off of a shelf in the bedroom alcove. Behind it, she lifted out the false back and piled in the heist cash from her purse.

The splashing stopped.

“You okay, honey?” Marisol asked.

“Yeah,” Dulce answered in a sleepy voice.

Marisol secured the false back into its place and returned the books to the bookshelf. She knocked on the bathroom door and stepped inside.

Dulce lay in the tub with her eyes closed. Her body looked like a garden with burgundy, violet, and navy blue flowers blooming.

Marisol's jaw was tight as she washed her hands in the sink. So many days she'd gone to high school with bruises under her own clothes.

“I don't know the last time I took a bath,” Dulce said. “The guys have hot tubs sometimes, but you never get to soak before they want to fuck.”

Marisol laughed. “I remember.”

“What?” Dulce opened her eyes. “You used to be a hoe?”

“I prefer the term ‘sex worker,' but yeah.” Marisol laughed. “Why do you think I run the clinic?”

People thought having sex for money was the worst thing in the world. For Marisol, it had been a step up.

“You're pretty enough,” Dulce said. “But you must've not had a pimp if you still look so good.”

“I had a pimp at first, a Russian guy named Sergei,” Marisol said as she took the rubber band out of her long, wavy hair and began to brush it out. “But he was only a businessman. He would have been just as happy to sell farm animals if he could make as much money.”

Dulce laughed.

“He protected us,” Marisol said. “Made sure we got to a clinic when it hurt to piss. He even paid for the antibiotics.” She ran some warm water and got a facecloth.

“And he was okay with you leaving?” Dulce asked.

Marisol looked up from washing her face. “We were like cows or horses. It wasn't personal.”

“Why'd you get out of the business?” Dulce asked.

Marisol shrugged. “I wanted to be the businesswoman. I had ideas about how to make more money. Make things safer. He wouldn't give my brains the time of day. These young Eastern European guys ran his errands, or called my pager with his messages. Maybe he listened to their business ideas. But he just wanted the women on their backs.”

“Then why'd you stay and give him your money?” Dulce asked.

“Half my money,” Marisol said. “He had one of the safest operations in the city. He provided clean hotel rooms, protection, some alcohol. We were lucky. If he thought you were cheating him, he just told you not to show your face in any of his bars. I remember girls getting stiffed by clients, then servicing an extra client to pay Sergei so they wouldn't get fired. And when girls left, he'd just find someone else. See? Not personal.”