Uptown Thief

by Aya De León

  Pulling her hood up to shade her face, she glanced up at Jerry. He was barely illuminated by the weak glow through the window, as he peered down through the gloom. Marisol was over two stories below him. It was dark. She had on men’s clothes. She knew he could barely see her, let alone recognize her. Yet she felt her insides liquefy under his gaze. A man who flicked a woman off a fourth story like ash from a cigarette.

  He lumbered back to the window, first his trunk, then both his legs, climbing back out of view.

  Marisol hustled down the final length of the ladder and jumped to the ground. Jody grabbed her hand.

  “I called nine-one-one on the burner phone,” Jody said, pulling her toward the other end of the alley. “I texted them to meet us.”

  Jody took off running, but Marisol turned back.

  “Marisol,” Jody hissed. “He’s gonna come looking for us.”

  Marisol ignored her and ran back to Nalissa. A pool of red was spreading behind the girl’s head, making her usually bright carrot-colored hair look washed out. She reached into Nalissa’s pocket for the girl’s phone.

  As she ran down the alley, she could feel the phone’s warmth through the latex gloves. In contrast to the cold night, it felt almost hot, as if it could burn her.

  Chapter 27

  Two days later, Marisol sat at her desk, wearing the same clinic T-shirt and cotton leggings she’d slept in. She hadn’t put in contacts, and she stared at a spreadsheet through slightly grimy glasses. Even after twelve hours of sleep, she felt tired. She was halfway dozing off, when Eva came in.

  “Serena’s hilarious,” Eva said. “Since that foundation check came in, she’s walking around here like the female Ed McMahon. Or a white Oprah. Ladies, look under your seats—Pap smears and HIV tests for everyone.”

  Marisol forced a weak smile.

  Eva laughed. “Seriously, though. We did it,” she said. “Really you did it. You should be so proud.”

  “I don’t really feel anything,” Marisol said, leaning back in her chair. In the two weeks since she had last seen Raul, the ache had dulled, replaced by a heavy weight in her torso. “I know I should be grateful. But I’m just going through the motions.”

  “It’s burnout, honey,” Eva said. “You should go visit your sister in Cuba.”

  “I can’t go right now.” Marisol ran a hand through her hair. When had she last combed it? “I’m a mess.”

  Eva crossed her arms. “Cristina doesn’t care what shape you’re in.”

  Marisol shrugged. “After everything with Jerry and Nalissa, I just ran out of gas.”

  “Nalissa’s still in a coma?” Eva asked.

  Marisol nodded. “But her phone was full of escort clients she’d stolen. Now they keep calling. I just handed Kim and Jody the escort operation. They can turn down those disloyal motherfuckers.”

  “Look, honey,” Eva said. “For the last year, you’ve been living from crisis to crisis.”

  “Really my whole life.”

  “Exactly,” Eva said. “You’re used to being so pumped full of adrenaline. The crash was inevitable.”

  “What do I do now?” Marisol asked.

  “Nothing. Just let the waves of feeling wash over you,” Eva said, putting an arm around Marisol. “It’ll shift in time.”

  Marisol recalled the waves in her dream of Raul. Previously, the memory of him had stung. But now, like everything else, it just made her feel tired.

  “Eva?” Marisol asked. “Can you prescribe something for me?”

  “I already did,” the older woman said. “Go see Cristina. You don’t need meds. You need rest, new scenery, and love.”

  Marisol closed her eyes. The thought of buying airline tickets seemed like more than she could manage.

  Marisol’s phone buzzed. The receptionist said Dulce was there to see her.

  * * *

  “I gotta get outta New York,” Dulce said as she clacked into the office on stiletto ankle boots, and sat down on the couch. “I ran into Jerry’s brother, Jimmy, today. He kept following me, squinting like he wasn’t sure if it was me or not.”

  She had dyed her hair back to a dark brown. “He saw me come out of my sister’s building. Jerry could find me now. He’ll look there and then at my ma’s apartment.”

  Marisol sat down next to her on the couch.

  “I won’t let him find you,” Marisol said. “I promise he’ll never touch you again.”

  Dulce burst into tears. “I’ve been so scared. Scared he would find me, and scared you wouldn’t help because of all the shit I’ve caused. The fire and then you had to shoot that guy.”

  “You didn’t cause that shit,” Marisol said. “Jerry caused it. That’s what we do here. Protect girls and make sure they have choices.”

  “So is it true?” Dulce sat up and wiped her eyes. “Is it true that you broke in a couple of weeks ago and got everyone’s passports back?”

  “No.” Marisol hugged her tight, looking over her shoulder as she lied. “Someone delivered them here anonymously.”

  “Star went back to Jamaica, and Spice went back to the Philippines. I don’t have any real family outside the city, except my cousin in Detroit.” She jiggled her foot and looked around the office. “Things didn’t work out with that backstabber. Her boyfriend tried to fuck me. When I told her, she threw me out instead of him. Good luck with ese cabron, pendeja.”

  “What about your brother in the Dominican Republic?”

  “He got locked up,” she said. “And my mom’s family down there are all dead or moved to the States.”

  “What about family on your dad’s side?”

  “My dad is long gone,” she said. “All I got is a grandmother I’ve never met, somewhere in Cuba.”

  “Why don’t you try to find her?” Marisol asked. “It’s legal to travel there now.”

  “What if she won’t take me in?” Dulce asked. “If I’m gonna be a homeless hoe, I’d rather be in the U.S.”

  “If I went to Cuba, would you come with me?”

  “Are you fucking kidding?” Dulce laughed. “If I’m going with you, I’m already packed.”

  Chapter 28

  Two days later, Marisol got hassled at every security checkpoint at JFK because she had left the panic key ring in the inner pocket of her purse.

  Finally, the five women touched down in Havana at José Martí International Airport.

  Dulce had clung to Marisol through the whole trip. Without the girl’s hard New York face, Marisol could tell she was practically still a teenager. She’d never been on a plane before.

  Cristina had sent word and a photo to Dulce’s grandmother. As the women walked through security, they hit a wall of brown faces. Whole families had come to meet their people. Adults and elders waving. Children jumping up and down. Babies dozing in parents’ arms.

  They trooped past the reunions. Dulce gripped Marisol’s hand, scanning the crowd.

  Tyesha gave Marisol the what-should-we-do? look. Marisol was ready to ask the authorities when a middle-aged man stepped forward, wearing a guayabera shirt. He led an elderly woman who shuffled slowly with a walker made of bamboo.

  “Dolores?” the old woman asked.

  The girl lit up. “Abuelita?”

  “Sí, mi amor.” The grandmother stepped forward and embraced her.

  Dulce sobbed and clung to her.

  The grandmother laughed and wiped Dulce’s eyes with a handkerchief. “We didn’t recognize you without the blond hair,” she said in Spanish.

  “You look better like this,” the man said.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” the grandmother said to Marisol with tears in her eyes. “I didn’t think I was ever going to see her.”

  “De nada,” Marisol said.

  They made their way out through the airport, where they were properly introduced to the man who turned out to be Dulce’s uncle. They also met three aunts, five cousins, and Dulce’s half sister.

  Marisol accepted their thank-yous a
nd promised to come over for dinner before she left. She and her crew all hugged Dulce good-bye, as she sobbed.

  Dulce squeezed Marisol hard. “If it wasn’t for you,” she stammered through her tears, “I know I’d be dead. I owe you my life, Marisol.”

  “No, nena,” Marisol said. “I didn’t give you anything more than you deserved.”

  Marisol felt her own eyes misting up. She knew Eva was right—she couldn’t save everyone. But this victory was particularly sweet. Just like in her own fantasy from decades ago: The long-lost relative had appeared, and Dulce would be safe. Marisol embraced both women, absorbing their tears of gratitude.

  * * *

  In the 2 a.m. light, they could barely see the city from the taxi. Marisol rolled down her window and drank in the thick, humid air. A heady cocktail of sea salt, tropical plants, and red dirt. Eva had been right. This was exactly what she needed.

  * * *

  The Hotel Palacio was a large, historic building with Spanish-style architecture, tall, curving archways, columns, and balconies. The suite was lovely, with thick carpets, high ceilings, antique décor, and modern amenities.

  “I like this country already,” Tyesha said, collapsing onto the queen-size bed.

  Kim and Jody had one room and Tyesha had the other. Marisol slept on the foldout couch in the living room. In the morning, she would see Cristina.

  Jody and Kim wheeled their suitcases into one of the bedrooms.

  “Good night, ladies,” Jody said.

  “Just keep it down,” Tyesha said as Kim closed the door with a grin.

  Tyesha turned to Marisol. “Pair of goddamn howler monkeys. If it gets too loud, you can always come crash with me.”

  “I bet I’ll be knocked out before the party even starts,” Marisol said.

  “I didn’t realize how much I needed to get away,” Tyesha said. “I been studying my ass off, but underneath it all, I’ve been kicking myself for not taking your advice about Woof.”

  “Really?” Marisol said. “I never got details.”

  “I was blinded by the bling,” Tyesha said. “But he was a dick.”

  “Powerful men are really appealing,” Marisol said. She hadn’t told the team about her interactions with VanDyke, or that she had hooked up with Raul.

  “We never even had sex, but do you know how hard it is to get your mind off the number-one rapper in America?” Tyesha said. “I swear, if I hear one more ‘hey, girl, hey, pick up it’s me’ ringtone, I’ll smash someone’s fucking phone. I wish I was more like you, Marisol. All about work, and not tripping off men. You must think I’m a mess.”

  “On the contrary,” Marisol said. “I didn’t think you could handle yourself, but you did. You got out after a couple of dates, before you even had sex. That’s admirable.”

  “Seriously,” Tyesha said. “If I’d been open like that and actually fucked him? I’d be walking around with my heart dragging on the ground.”

  “Yup,” Marisol said. “That’s for sure.”

  * * *

  In the morning, Marisol was crashed on the sofa bed when she heard a knock at the door of the hotel room. She rolled over and rubbed her eyes. Her watch said 9:45, and Cristina wasn’t due until eleven. She had forgotten to put up the Do Not Disturb sign.

  “Momentito,” she said, wrapping a sheet around her bare legs. She would tell the housekeeper to come back later.

  She peeked her head out the door and shrieked, then covered her mouth with both hands. Cristina threw her arms around her. Marisol hugged her back, and they started crying. The sheet fell to the floor, and they hung on to each other and sobbed.

  Marisol half-released Cristina and invited her in. They lay on the sofa bed, shoulders pressed close.

  “Your shoulder is so fucking bony, flaqita,” Marisol said.

  “Cállate,” Cristina said. “Juan keeps trying to feed me, but I’m always rushing and tired.”

  “I need to get you some damn food,” Marisol said. Cristina’s sandy curls were pulled back from her face with three black bobby pins. Marisol smoothed a lock back from her sister’s forehead. “When did you start wearing glasses?” Marisol asked.

  “When did your ass get so big?” Cristina asked. “You better watch out for these Cuban men. They’re gonna be all over you.”

  “Whatever,” Marisol said. She had always been curvy, and she had filled out a bit more in her thirties. Cristina was slender and practically flat-chested, with lighter coloring. They had both inherited the underlying bone structure of their mother’s face—large, close-set Taino eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips.

  Cristina had on a pair of loose shorts, a tank top, no bra, and flip-flops. “I see you dressed up for me,” Marisol said.

  “Let’s get outta here,” Cristina said. “Juan should be downstairs by now.”

  Marisol stepped into jeans, and grabbed her shoes and purse. Cristina zipped up the open suitcase and wheeled the bags out of the room.

  Marisol followed her into the hallway. “Is that a gray hair?” she asked, tugging at one of Cristina’s short curls.

  Cristina laughed. “One for every year of medical school.”

  “My baby sister with gray hair,” Marisol said as they went down on the elevator.

  “You dye yours like abuelita or pull them like mami?” Cristina asked.

  “I pull them,” Marisol said, as the elevator opened. “But I’m getting too many now. I have to start dyeing or I’ll be bald.”

  They walked through the lobby. The restaurant was full of tourists having breakfast.

  “Or you could just let them be gray and natural,” Cristina said.

  “Please. I live in New York, not Havana.”

  “Just saying,” Cristina said. “Maybe mami would have eventually let hers grow in gray.”

  “Ha!” Marisol said. “She would have taken to the bottle just like abuelita.”

  “No way to know,” Cristina said, as they stepped outside.

  Cristina’s boyfriend, Juan, waved from across the street. He was tall with caramel skin, a short Afro, and dark eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Welcome to Cuba!” he said in Spanish, kissing her cheek. “Sorry we couldn’t pick you up at the airport, but we worked overnight at the hospital.”

  He took her suitcases and loaded them into the trunk of his boxy Eastern European eighties-make car.

  “Our house is no Hotel Palacio, pero mi casa es tu casa.”

  “Thanks so much for having me,” Marisol said. “I know you all are busy—”

  “Busy is an understatement,” Cristina said. She and Juan proceeded to share several recent hospital anecdotes. Juan talked about the time the tube on the ventilator broke and they used a krazy straw that a tourist had brought. Cristina said she always wore extra bobby pins because she never knew when she’d need a short piece of metal to hold some piece of furniture or equipment together.

  “I’d been picturing you starring in Grey’s Anatomy,” Marisol said. “But it sounds more like MacGyver.”

  Cristina laughed and explained the joke to Juan.

  * * *

  Cristina and Juan’s place was a two-bedroom pink cement house they shared with Juan’s sister and her two kids. The rest of the family had gone to live for a while with Juan’s ailing grandmother in Santiago, so Marisol got their room. She set down her suitcases among the crib, child’s bed, cloth diapers, and toys so old they might have belonged to Juan or his sister.

  While Juan slept, Cristina and Marisol sat on opposite ends of the creaking wicker sofa, with their feet tangled up in the middle.

  “Mami, don’t let me keep you up,” Marisol said. “If you need to sleep, go ahead. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

  “Sleep?” Cristina asked. “I’m so excited you’re finally here, I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I brought you a present,” Marisol said. She pulled out a copy of From Red Light to Red Carpet, signed by Delia Borbón.

  Cristina squealed and hugged
Marisol. “Oh my God!! You’re the best.”

  “Cállate,” Marisol said. “You’ll wake up your boyfriend.”

  “Please,” Cristina said. “Ese tipo could sleep through Armageddon.”

  Sure enough, they didn’t hear a sound from the bedroom until around three, when Juan emerged, eyes puffy and half-closed.

  The kitchen and living room were separated by a low partition. He didn’t speak until after he’d made them all a pot of coffee.

  As they sat sipping from chipped, mismatched mugs, their neighbor knocked on the door. Vladimir was strapping and pecan-colored, with hazel eyes, golden dreadlocks, and an easy laugh. He offered Marisol the customary kiss hello, but lingered, holding her hand, looking her up and down.

  “Un placer,” he said, and invited them all over to his house later that night for a party. A little welcome to the neighborhood.

  “We’ll be there,” Juan said.

  * * *

  “Did I misunderstand?” Marisol asked after the door had closed behind Vladimir. “Is he throwing me a party?”

  “Trust me,” Juan said. “It’s better this way. Otherwise, they’d all have to come over individually to check you out.”

  “You’re kidding,” Marisol said.

  “Word has already traveled across the neighborhood,” Cristina explained. “I’m La Puertorriqueña. You’re Sister of La Puertorriqueña.”

  “What?” Marisol asked. “I don’t get my own identity?”

  “Not unless you stay awhile.” Cristina laughed. “I’m hoping to graduate to ‘Juan’s girlfriend’ after a couple of years. If I stay for a decade, I might get to be ‘Cristina.’”

  “Havana is a city of gossip,” Juan explained. “Be careful of Vladimir. He wants to host the party to—you know, mark the territory.”

  “Let everyone know he met you first,” Cristina said.

  “I gotta get to the hospital,” Juan said, and kissed Cristina good-bye.

  Cristina refilled their coffee cups.

  “ ‘Mark the territory’?” Marisol asked.

  Cristina laughed and switched to English. “I told you, these guys’ll be all over you.”