by Aya De León
* * *
After lunch, they walked through the tourist part of the area. She bought a swimsuit and a couple pairs of cute shoes. She would have bought a dress, but the tourist sizes were apparently for women who didn’t have as much ass as she did.
It had been ages since she’d been to the beach. She’d gone to Coney Island with her family a bunch of times. Her boyfriend had taken her to Miami Beach, but they hadn’t gone in the water. She’d just been arm candy in a couple of clubs and part of the entourage as he handled business on the strip.
Zavier had a slender triangle of an upper body. Broad shoulders and a narrow waist. A smooth mosaic of hair across his chest. In the loose trunks, his legs were tawny and lean, the hair on his calves flashing auburn in the sunlight.
He dove into the water and started to swim away from the shore.
She hesitated.
He turned around. “Hey, are you coming or what?”
“I can’t swim,” she said.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “What kind of Caribeña can’t swim?”
“The kind that gets raised in Washington Heights,” she said.
“But didn’t you come here a bunch as a kid?” he asked. “Your aunt’s house isn’t that far from the beach.”
“Both the beaches and the rivers near Haina are so polluted,” she said. “My tía wouldn’t let us swim there.”
“Come here, then,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”
They waded out to waist deep water. The beach was in a cove, so the waves were gentle.
“Here’s what you do,” he said. “Lean back and just float. I’ll hold you up.”
She felt awkward, laying in his arms, but she could feel the tight six pack of his belly against her side.
“That’s it,” he said. “Just relax.”
“How do you know I’m not gonna sink?” she asked.
“I’m looking at you in a swimsuit,” he said. “You got plenty to hold you up.”
“Fine,” she said laughing. “So my ass won’t sink. But I’m worried about my head going under.”
“Then dunk your whole body,” he said, lowering the arm that had been beneath her legs. “Get used to the water.”
Her feet slowly drifted down to the ocean floor.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll do it with you.”
He held her hands, and together, they went under.
She came up laughing. The ocean was warm and she felt safe with him. As the salt water ran down from her hair, she was glad she hadn’t wasted money on a blowout.
And then she lay in his arms, relaxing, feeling her body floating.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna take my arms away.”
For a second, she floated but then she tensed and began to sink.
She sputtered and grabbed him around the neck.
“You had it there for a minute,” he said, putting one hand around her back and the other under her knees.
She tried it again, and this time she got it.
Floating felt amazing. Like she could let go of everything she’d ever worried about.
“Float with me,” she said.
“That’s a tall order,” he said. “I’m all skin and bone. Not much to float.”
“You got a little ass there,” she said.
He laughed. “Whatever I got is muscle,” he said. “Muscle sinks, too.”
“Fine,” she said. “We can take turns. I’ll hold you up.”
“What self-respecting Caribbean man would let his date hold him up in the water?”
“The kind of Caribbean guy who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and could use a break,” Dulce said. “Besides, fuck these people. You’ll never see them again.”
He laughed. “All very good points,” he said. “If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll deny it.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” she said.
And he lay back in her arms. After a few minutes, he even fell asleep.
As she looked down at him sleeping, Dulce felt strange. She’d never had a man trust her like this before. Relax with her. She thought about the men she had messed with. Her longest relationships were with a pimp and a drug dealer. She didn’t think she’d ever seen either of them relax.
The sun went behind a cloud, and there was less glare off the ocean. She was able to really look at Zavier. His face was beautiful without the glasses. Chiseled. His hair floated around his head in a curly halo. His eyelashes were long, and the muscles in his arms and chest were firm, even as his entire body was relaxed.
He was good-looking, but not in any way that was familiar. With Jerry, she had been fourteen, and there had been the sense of excitement that being with an older man would make her grown, somehow. That some of the power would rub off on her. With her ex from Miami, it was that sense of being chosen. That he could have any girl, but he wanted her. He was the full deployment of the original fantasy she’d had about Jerry. A man who would take care of her. But Jerry was a sham because he wanted her to fuck other guys for money. Ultimately—as Marisol had revealed to her—she was the one taking care of Jerry with her sexual labor. In contrast, her ex in Miami only wanted her for himself. But she had been naïve to think that it could last. A man like that has a parade of side chicks.
Zavier was a whole different type. In the past, he wouldn’t have even shown up on her radar. This guy might be some kind of boyfriend material. After he woke up, she’d be sure to ask if he was married.
The sun came out from behind the clouds. Zavier began to squint behind his closed eyes. He opened them, then blinked and stood upright.
“Oh wow,” he said. “How long was I out?”
“Just for a minute,” Dulce said.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Why are you sorry?” she asked. “I fell asleep on you on the airplane,”
“It’s rude to fall asleep on a date,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I’m not excited to be with such a beautiful woman. But there’s a way I can just relax with you and be myself.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “It’s like I’ve known you for much longer than a couple weeks.”
“Really just a couple days if you count the times we’ve actually been around each other,” he said.
From the water, she heard a paletero yelling that he had popsicles.
“Let’s get some,” she said.
“I left everything but my key in the car,” he said.
“I got some cash,” she said, and pulled a few coins out from under her breasts in the swimsuit. Dulce never let herself go anywhere without a little money.
“A woman of many talents,” he said.
“You have no idea.”
The two of them sat on the towels they had bought, and ate the paletas. He got strawberry and she got mango.
When she had been with her ex, she’d eaten ice cream with him a few times. Each time it was about licking it in a way that would turn him on. But with Zavier, she wasn’t putting on a show.
She felt the cool, sweet mango in her mouth, the sun on her face, the sound of the waves, and the presence of the guy next to her. She never wanted the day to end.
* * *
When he dropped her off at her great aunt’s house, they both knew she couldn’t ask him in. So she expected that he would make a move on her in the car. She didn’t have any condoms, so she planned to explain that and give him a blow job.
After he stopped the car, she waited for him to make a move. To kiss her or something. They sat there for an awkward moment.
Then he jumped up. “Shit, where are my manners?”
He stepped out of the driver’s side and came around and opened her door. She was stunned, and it took her a moment to rally. Was something wrong? He didn’t think she was sexy?
He reached a hand in, and took hers. Then he kissed her gently on her knunkles and led her out of the car.
“I had a really nice time,” he said.
She didn’t trus
t her voice, so she just nodded.
Still holding her hand, he walked her up to the bungalow’s door. “Can I come back and see you again tomorrow?”
She nodded again.
His grin was huge. “Noon at the latest. I want to spend as much time with you as I can.”
He gave her a soft kiss on the cheek, and then he was gone.
She stood there in the moonlight, dazed by the chivalry and disoriented from her body having revved up for sex that didn’t happen.
She might have stood there all night if her great aunt hadn’t opened the door.
“Carajo, nena, are you coming in or what?”
She stepped in and closed the door behind her. Confusion still filled her body, but beneath it all was the excitement for tomorrow.
Chapter 6
Marisol’s team, which consisted of Lily and Serena, landed in Puerto Rico by 6 AM the following day. They picked up a blue compact from the car rental, and drove to a small-town bed and breakfast between San Juan and Las Palmas.
Marisol was waiting in their room.
“How was the trip?” she asked, hugging them both. “Any trouble in the airport?”
“No problem,” Lily said, opening the checked luggage and pulling out some of the items Marisol had requested: a satellite phone, two burner phones, and a flame lighter with an extra-long reach. Lily had buried the items under a bunch of costumes. Nothing they had was technically illegal, but they didn’t want to raise any questions.
Puerto Rico didn’t have the same type of customs as sovereign Caribbean nations, but Lily had taken extra care to disguise the biggest item they had brought, a spike strip. Although the strips targeted cars and not people, they were considered weapons. These accordions of jutting nails were used by law enforcement to stop fleeing suspects. Just set one of them in a vehicle’s path for an instant tire blowout. They were commercially available for personal security, and you could buy them online. Or, in Lily’s case, you could get them on short notice from a thuggish on-and-off hookup you knew in Brooklyn.
Lily had disassembled the spike strip and made it look like part of a carnival costume. She’d sewn the spiked bars onto the back of three pairs of leather boots, then she’d stuck bright blue feathers onto each spike. She even packed a trio of blue leotards, two blue wigs and a headdress to make it look more believable.
Serena had packed the other disassembled pieces of the spike strip, as well as the screwdriver and nails. The two women had flown on separate reservations, checked their suitcases, and made sure to sit far apart on the plane. Fortunately, neither of them had been searched.
“So who’s the target?” Serena asked.
Marisol showed them a photo on her phone. “This guy,” she said, pointing to the fiftyish grinning white man. “Davis Evanston, the CEO of Puerto Cyclo.” She pulled up another photo of a black car. “And this is what he’ll be driving.”
Marisol spent the next ten minutes showing the the two new arrivals how to set up the satellite phone to follow the GPS tracker she had put on Evanston’s car. Then she loaded a geolocator site and put in a set of coordinates.
“This is the location where you should wait for him,” she said, pointing her finger to a dropped pin on a winding road in the mountains.
“Why here?” Lily asked.
“Notorious for bad cell service,” Marisol said.
“Which is why we needed the satellite phone,” Serena said.
“So after we blow out the tires on the car, do we rob the guy?” Lily asked.
“Nope,” Marisol said. “You know I don’t like to rob, just to burgle.”
“What’s the difference again?” Serena asked.
“Robbing is more intimate,” Lily said. “When you burgle, the mark isn’t there.”
“So why stop the car?” Serena asked.
“You’re my alibi,” Marisol said.
“So while he’s stranded out on the road, you’re gonna burgle him?” Lily asked.
Marisol nodded. “I’m about to burgle the fuck out of this asshole.”
* * *
On her way back to the Puerto Cyclo resort, Marisol stopped by her grandmother’s house in Las Palmas. She put two numbers in the burner phone and gave it to Nidia.
“This first number is my burner phone,” Marisol said. “Call me if there are any problems. This second number is the one you call when I send the signal.”
Nidia nodded.
“Here’s my credit card and ID,” Marisol said. “Just sign a scrawl for my name on any receipts.”
“Should I have Zara straighten my hair with the curling iron so I can look more like you?” Nidia asked.
Marisol nodded. She and Nidia had faces that looked passably alike. Similar height. Marisol had encouraged Nidia to wear a loose dress to hide the differences in their body shapes. If Nidia straightened her hair it would be difficult for any casual observer to say that she wasn’t Marisol. Even if they were shown a photograph later.
“So here’s the big challenge,” Marisol said. “How’s your English?”
“I understand it better than I speak it,” Nidia said.
Marisol nodded. “So speak Spanish in the restaurant,” she said. “Just like I would. But you have to say one phrase in English like a native.”
“What phrase?” Nidia asked.
“ ‘No worries,’ ” Marisol said.
“Noh wodies,” Nidia said back to her.
“Okay,” Marisol said in Spanish, conjure up your inner-yanqui. “Nooooeeeee.”
Nidia laughed. “Noooohhh.”
Marisol laughed, too. “Watch my mouth,” she said in Spanish. “Noooooeeeee.”
Nidia mimicked Marisol’s lips: “nooooeee.”
“Perfecto!” Marisol said. “You’re halfway there. Now try the second part: Wurrrrrieeezzz.”
“Woodieezz,” Nidia said.
“Wurrriezz,” Marisol said. “Just do the vowel sound. Uuuuurrr.”
“Uuuuhhhh . . .” Nidia tried it, and burst into uncontrollable laughter. “This is a totally unnatural way for the human mouth to move. No wonder yanquis don’t know how to act.”
Marisol laughed, too. “You’re probably right,” she said. “Try again.”
Half an hour later, Nidia could say it with a straight face. “No worries.”
“Yes!” Marisol said. “You did it. Here’s your prize.” She handed her the long reach flame lighter.
“And this is to set the fire?” Nidia asked, turning it over in her hand. She took a while to get the hang of pressing in the button with her thumb and pulling the trigger with her finger. After a few tries, a flame shot out of the tip.
“Nicely done,” Marisol said. “When we do it for real, don’t light too many papers. Maybe just one section of a newspaper. Or better yet, a stack of Puerto Cyclo’s fucking tourist brochures.”
“That’ll be easy,” Nidia said. “For a while now I’ve been taking them from the bar where Zara works.”
Marisol grinned. Again, she felt the pull to tell Nidia that there was no friend, that she was the thief. But she hadn’t gotten this far by being careless when her emotional guard was down.
She smiled at Nidia. “You’re gonna be great at this,” she said. “Now I gotta get back to the resort.”
* * *
By 12:25 that day, Marisol had finally gotten the hang of the rented motorcycle. She’d practiced in sneakers, but now she was riding in her stiletto pumps. She felt like a cliché in the tight spaghetti strap top, the short shorts, and the high heels, but she was determined to get Davis Evanston’s attention.
And so it was, that at 12:45, she revved the bike loudly and drove along the road past the picture window of the hotel’s restaurant.
The CEO speaking at the podium looked up from his audience. From behind her shades, Marisol saw him watching her. She had choreographed it perfectly: a woman roaring slowly by on a motorcycle, her voluptuous ass barely contained on the bike’s seat, and her long dark hair flowing behi
nd her.
Marisol pulled up to the hotel entrance, parked, and walked into the restaurant. Above the podium, there was a huge motorcycle mounted on the wall where the heads of animals might be.
Evanston was taking questions. Marisol carefully ignored the CEO and got a table facing away from him, looking out the window at the unnaturally blue wave pool.
She ordered lunch, and when the pathetic salad arrived fifteen minutes later, Evanston himself was serving her.
“Wow,” she said with a bright smile. “You must be short of staff to have the owner waiting tables.”
“I was concerned about you,” he said, setting down the salad. “You really should wear a helmet.”
She shrugged. “I know. I’m bad,” she said. “But I came here to feel free. Unencumbered by all the constraints of my regular life in the states. Care to join me for lunch Mr. Evanston?”
He slid into the chair opposite her. “Call me Davis,” he said and extended his hand.
“Marisol,” she said, and he clasped her fingers in more of a squeeze than a shake.
“You have great taste,” he said. “You picked the best of our rental bikes.”
She let out a tinkling laugh, the kind she saved for clients and marks. “I like to feel power between my legs.”
She took a bite of the salad as the waiter came by and the CEO ordered his lunch.
As soon as the waiter left, a white guy around Evanston’s age came by the table.
“Great talk, Davis,” he said.
“Thanks,” Davis said, then turned to Marisol. “Meet Phillip Gerard. He’s my real estate genius. And a bit of a rogue. Phil, isn’t there a warrant for your arrest in Costa Rica? Something about a young girl going missing?”
Marisol’s stomach clenched, and she had to work to keep her composure. She maintained her smile, despite a wave of nausea, as Gerard kissed her hand.
“Davis is just jealous because I’m richer and more handsome,” Gerard said. “So he’s stooping to the level of gossip. Not a good look, Davis.”
“Oh come on, Phil,” Davis said. “This woman looks old enough to drink in all fifty states. She’s obviously not your type.”
“You could have fooled me,” Gerard said. “You look like an ingenue.”
Marisol giggled and it sounded shrill to her own ears.
