by Aya De León
“You, Jeremy VanDyke, have played a very minor role in the movie of my life, and your screen time is over,” she told him. “I’m gonna keep running my damn clinic, and continue—as I have—not thinking about you, not plotting any scheme that concerns you, and not even mentioning your name.”
“Ordinarily I would leave it at that, but this deal is very significant in our Asian market,” he said. “It’s a question of timing.”
“No, it’s a question of trust,” Marisol said. “You contracted a confidential service with a competent professional. And you need to get on your plane to Japan with your reputation in the hands of a whore. And you need to ask yourself, did the woman who went from street sex worker to running a two-million-dollar agency get there by shooting off her mouth?”
“Everything has a price,” he said. “Just name it.”
“Jeremy,” Marisol said. “Your five minutes are up. Why should I resell you something that came with the package of our previous transaction—my professional integrity?”
“Please,” he said. “Just look at the figure I’m offering.”
She opened up the paper. “Seventy-five thousand, huh? Okay, I’ll sign,” she said, pulling a pen from the cup on her desk. “You’ll just need to take your clothes off.”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“The cost of exposure.” She nodded, uncapping the pen. “You’ll just need to exit the building naked in front of my staff.”
He closed his eyes. “I really regret—” he began. “I was panicked and I—I should have allowed you to dress. I apologize.”
“No need for apologies,” Marisol said. “Like you said, you paid for the privilege. Everyone has their price. Is this yours? I sign this paper in exchange for you walking out, stark naked, in front of my all-female staff?”
“But if the press was ever—”
“No one will recognize you without your suit on, Jeremy,” Marisol said. “You’ll just be a random, naked white man. But I can put a bag over your head if you’re worried.”
“Ms. Rivera, please—” he began.
“Tick tock, Jeremy,” Marisol said. “Your Japanese investors are waiting. You need to decide if it’s worth it. This offer expires in thirty seconds.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him her hardest stare.
Slowly, jaw set, he stood up and loosened his tie. When he opened the first button on his shirt, she put up a hand.
“Stop,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said.
She scrawled a signature on the agreement and tossed it onto the desk. “This meeting is over.”
He stood up, refolded the paper, and put it in his jacket. He pulled out a check and handed it across the desk to her.
“I can also see I made the right choice,” he said, turning in the doorway.
“About what?” Marisol asked.
“When I picked you to join me for the evening. I couldn’t have foreseen the robbery, but—assuming you can be trusted—I was wise to get not only a thoroughly enjoyable evening, but a level of integrity that I might not have gotten from any of your . . . associates. Again, I apologize for my rudeness that evening.”
“Good night, Jeremy,” she said. “Good luck on your trip.”
She folded the check. A legitimate way to pay their taxes.
“Good luck to you, too,” he said. “I understand your clinic has come into a large sum of money.”
“Excuse me?” she said, her body suddenly chilled.
“The Operations Excellence grant,” he said. “I read it in one of the philanthropy papers. One-point-three million, is it?”
She nodded.
“Congratulations,” he said. “Be sure to spend it wisely.”
* * *
The eight million in cash barely fit on the coffee table in Marisol’s office. She had the bricks of bills in three black garbage bags, each doubled against the razor-sharp corners.
The day after she met with VanDyke, her team sat on the couch as she set the third bag on the table. The days were staying light a little later, and they could see the last glow of daylight through the slit in the closed curtains.
“It’s a good thing that we waited to divide up the money,” Marisol said. “Because some of the bills were marked.”
“Holy shit,” Jody said.
Marisol held the scrap of paper in her hand that she’d gotten from Raul with all the bill numbers on it. Her only souvenir from their little—whatever it was. Several days had passed since she had seen him in the police station. The sting wasn’t as fresh, but the heartache was a constant presence.
“Let’s find these marked bills,” she told the team.
“I fucking hate loose ends,” Tyesha said. “Marked bills? And what about Nalissa?”
“With her dumb ass,” Kim said, “she’s gonna get herself arrested and then try to make a deal by snitching on us.”
Marisol shook her head. “What could she say? She worked with us as an escort, until she stole a bag of cash and started her own operation?”
“Maybe they’d care about the cash,” Jody said.
“Too small-time,” Marisol said. “Maybe if she knew something about VanDyke, but she doesn’t.”
“Thank God,” Kim said.
“After we weed out the marked bills, let’s sit on the cash for a few more months just in case,” Marisol said. “You should each have your cut by the end of the summer.”
Given the fifty-fifty split with the clinic, then the four-way split, each woman would get just under a million dollars.
“Speaking of loose ends,” Marisol said. “Jerry—”
“Loose ends or loose cannons?” Kim asked.
“I motherfucking hate pimps,” Tyesha said. “Even when they’re someone else’s pimp they can still fuck up your life.”
“I know,” Marisol said. “I was seeing our friend Jerry as a problem. But then I started seeing him as the solution.”
“Solution to what?” Kim asked.
“I had a talk with Dulce today,” Marisol said. “Jerry has a wall safe.”
“I say we rig it to blow up in his face,” Jody said.
“I second that motion,” Tyesha said.
“Even better,” Marisol said. “For the first time in our burglary careers, we’ll be leaving a little tip.”
“Explosive?” Jody asked.
“Nope,” Marisol said. “I like to tip in cash.”
Marisol handed out latex gloves, face masks, and hairnets, and they began the arduous task of sorting through the take from the VanDyke heist to find the bill numbers on Raul’s list.
They searched for a while without speaking.
“Got one!” Kim said, her voice muffled behind the mask.
Tyesha snatched the hundred-dollar bill from Kim and pulled down her mask. She sang the hook from a popular rap song: “I gotta give my pimp all my money.”
The women all laughed.
“When do we do the hit?” Kim asked.
“Tomorrow night,” Marisol said. “I got info from Dulce.”
* * *
Marisol’s upper body felt sweaty and awkward in the male bodysuit. It was Wednesday, the night after they’d found all the marked bills. She stood in front of Jerry’s safe, stuffing the pimp’s cash and guns into her knapsack.
She felt around in the back of the safe, and her fingers came across something flattened against the rear wall. She aimed the flashlight, and found a manila envelope taped to the back of the safe.
It held six passports of various colors, each from different countries. Five girls, including Dulce, aged eighteen to twenty-one. On the bottom was Jerry’s passport. He was forty-four. She stuffed them all into her pack.
From her pocket, she pulled out a plastic bag with a mix of marked and unmarked hundred-dollar bills. She wedged the stack of cash into the back corner of the safe. She jammed them behind the envelope and pushed a corner under the tape to make it look as if the bills had gotten caught. She closed the safe door
, and walked back to the front of the apartment.
In the unlit living room, Jody’s face was illuminated by a streetlight, and the glow of the New York sky that never went dark.
Jody pointed to an SUV double-parked in front of the building. “We may have company.”
Two men got out of the vehicle and walked toward the building.
“Shit!” Marisol said. “I think that’s Jerry’s brother. We better go out the fire escape.”
“Give me the pack,” Jody said. “You’re awkward enough in that damn suit.”
They ran to the back of the apartment and tried the window.
“It’s painted shut,” Marisol said.
“That fucker is practically holding these girls hostage,” Jody said.
“We gotta go out the front,” Marisol said. She reached into the pack, removed two guns, and checked them for ammo. Both were loaded. “If they catch us, we can hold them at gunpoint and run, or shoot if we have to.”
“My pleasure,” Jody said.
“Only if we have to,” Marisol said.
Back in the living room, the only two places to hide were behind an armchair, or underneath a large coffee table with a tinted gray glass top.
Jody dove behind the chair, and Marisol tried to squeeze in next to her, but she was too bulky in the suit.
Marisol knelt beside the coffee table and waved a hand under it. She couldn’t see her hand very well, but it was far from invisible. She squirmed under the table.
“Jody,” Marisol whispered. “Will they be able to see me?”
Jody peeked out from behind the chair. “No, it’s dark enough.”
“What if they turn the lights on?” Marisol asked.
“Just shoot those fuckers right through the table,” Jody said.
Marisol drew in a ragged breath. When she heard keys in the lock, she broke out in a cold sweat under the thick bodysuit, her hands and feet twitching with nerves.
She could hear a man’s voice just outside the door. “This bitch Nalissa? Trying to act like some kind of pimp moving in on our territory? She’s not a fucking pimp, she’s a hoe and Jerry’s gonna fuck that bitch and slit her throat.”
The door opened and the light flipped on. Two men walked into the apartment. The voice belonged to Jerry’s brother, Jimmy, the pretty boy. The other man was tall, pale, and looked high on something. Both were dressed in hip-hop gear that looked too young for them.
“Gonna put that bitch in her place,” Jimmy continued. “You want a drink?”
“Sure,” the drugged-out guy said, trailing after him into the kitchen. They walked right past Marisol.
They heard the fridge open and the clink of glasses and ice. Jody slipped out from her hiding place and headed for the door.
As quietly as she could, Marisol wriggled her body out from under the table in the heavy suit.
Jody turned the apartment doorknob.
“Wait a minute,” Jerry’s brother said from the kitchen. “Did the alarm go off when we came in?”
“I don’t know, Lil J,” the other guy said. “I don’t remember no alarm.”
He headed into the living room. The two women flew out the door.
“What the fuck?” Jerry’s brother yelled, just as the door was closing.
Marisol ran for the stairs, but Jody stayed behind. When Jimmy flew out the door behind them, she Maced him and cracked him in the head with the gun. He moaned. She shoved him back in the apartment, and slammed the door behind him.
* * *
Half an hour later, they met up with Tyesha and Kim back at the clinic. Marisol was locking up all of Jerry’s stuff, except two of the guns. She stuck one down the back of her waistband.
“We have to find Nalissa before Jerry does,” she said.
“Fuck that,” Tyesha said. “I know you tryna save everybody, but—”
“Marisol is the original captain save-a-hoe,” Kim said.
“Nalissa knows too much,” Marisol said, and handed the other gun to Jody.
“You said she was no threat if she went to the cops,” Jody said.
“The cops?” Marisol said. “I’m worried about Jerry. Everybody knows he’s got it in for me. Including Nalissa. She would definitely snitch to him trying to save her ass. Maybe even make some shit up.”
“Good point,” Kim said. “But where is she?”
* * *
By 3 a.m., they had found Nalissa’s Bronx apartment, only half a mile from Jerry’s place. Kim and Jody stood on the front stoop making out. Marisol knelt hidden behind them, and worked to open the door.
She wore a bulky black jacket with loose black jeans and sneakers. Her hair was up under a cap. Both she and Jody wore black latex gloves, in case the place was already a crime scene.
“Kim,” Marisol whispered as the lockpick slipped once again. “I might need you to take over.”
“Okay,” Kim said. “But no kissing my girlfriend.”
“Marisol is kinda hot, though,” Jody said. She was also dressed to look boyish in thick sweats and work boots.
Marisol ignored them and the lock finally clicked.
The two women stopped kissing. Marisol and Jody stepped inside, as Kim went down to the car to sit lookout with Tyesha.
On the fourth floor, they could hear thudding bass from behind Nalissa’s door. Marisol managed the apartment lock, and opened the door a crack. She saw a cheaply furnished and dim living room. A couple was having sex on a foldout couch. The woman was on all fours, and both had their backs to the door. The woman moaned with exaggerated excitement, and the man’s neck was flushed with concentration.
Marisol and Jody crept inside, the music covering the sound of the closing door.
Down the hallway, they found three bedrooms. The first two also had sounds of thumping and moaning, but the third was quiet.
Marisol and Jody kicked in the door, guns drawn.
Nalissa sat in an armchair in jeans and a T-shirt, smoking a cigarette. When the two women burst in, the cigarette fell onto the carpet.
“Marisol,” Nalissa said, wide-eyed with hands up. “Don’t shoot. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Marisol stepped forward and punched Nalissa in the face. The young woman fell onto the bed.
The smell of singeing plastic filled the room, and Marisol ground out the cigarette with her boot, leaving a char mark on the carpet.
“Please, Marisol,” Nalissa whined. “I was always planning to pay you back. I got five thousand here right now.” Very slowly, with her other hand raised, she removed a small blue backpack from beneath the mattress. “A down payment. Another five by next week, I swear. Don’t kill the goose that lays the golden egg. I just wanted to be like you. Be the boss.” She held the backpack out to Marisol.
“It’s not about being the goddamn boss,” Marisol said, slapping the backpack out of Nalissa’s hand. “It’s about doing what you fucking have to do for your folks. How you gonna have some girl getting fucked in your living room while people walk in and out? That’s not being a madam. That’s being a little girl playing dress-up. You thought you stole some play money? You stole the rent money. The whole fucking clinic almost got shut down behind your ass.”
“I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t,” Marisol said. “Didn’t know. Didn’t care. But I cleaned up that mess, just like I’m here to clean up another mess. You pissed off the wrong people.”
“I promise, I’ll make it up to you,” Nalissa said.
“Not me,” Marisol said. “Jerry the pimp, the fucking psychopath who firebombed the clinic? You’re operating on his turf.”
“No,” Nalissa said. “His brother, Jimmy, told me—”
“Then Jimmy played you,” Marisol said.
Jody’s phone beeped and she checked it. “Jerry and his boys are on their way up,” she said. “He plans to fucking kill you.”
Marisol stuck her gun back down her waistband. “Let’s go out the fire escape,” she said, opening the window. Sh
e pushed Nalissa out, then climbed out with Jody.
Jody lowered the ladder. From inside the apartment, they could hear the music stop. Then the thundering of Jerry’s voice.
Marisol and Jody had begun to descend down the fire escape, but Nalissa climbed back into the bedroom.
“What the—” Marisol began, and started to climb back up.
Through the small window, Marisol could see into the bedroom. Nalissa was grabbing the backpack.
Nalissa had one leg back out the window when Jerry burst in, cursing. With his hefty frame and booming voice, he seemed to take up all the space in the small room. Nalissa rushed to the escape, backpack in one hand.
While Jody had climbed down two flights, Marisol had been crouching in the relative darkness of the fire escape ladder. As Nalissa’s leg hit the fire escape landing, Marisol began climbing down fast.
From below, she could see most of Nalissa’s body squeeze out the window, and then a man’s arm pulling on the backpack. Nalissa yanked hard and the man’s hand let go. Nalissa fell back against the iron of the fire escape, banging her head. She sagged in what seemed like a daze, one hand loosely clutching the backpack, the other crumpled beneath her.
Jody was on the ground now. Marisol continued to climb down, as quickly as she dared. Meanwhile, above her, she saw a thick leg climb out of the window. Then a second leg, then Jerry heaved his ass and trunk out the window.
Marisol froze. She could see Nalissa rally and scramble for the ladder. Jerry was big—unwieldy on the small fire escape—but he was fast. He crossed the landing in a single step, the metal groaning with the movement of his weight. His hand clenched over Nalissa’s arm. He ripped the backpack away from her, tearing the bag from the straps and tossing it back in through the window.
“You ain’t no pimp, bitch,” he said, his voice echoing into the alley. “Only one pimp around here.”
He grabbed her by both of her shoulders and wrenched her from the ladder, holding her for a moment in the air. Nalissa was frozen, her face a mask of terror, her hands clenched on the thin pair of blue backpack straps, now ragged at the ends.
And then, as if she were an oversized doll, he tossed her off the fire escape.
Marisol ducked her head, both to avoid being seen, and to avoid seeing. So she heard, rather than saw, Nalissa fall the three floors and land on the concrete with a sickening thud.
