“Thanks.”
Ruby reached out and ruffled Marisol’s hair, the wet, greasy strands flopped against Marisol’s burning cheeks. “Want me to clean it up a little later?”
“Sure.”
“Tell ya what,” Ruby said, bending to look into Marisol’s eyes. “Why don’t we eat first? You can shower after. I’m starved.”
Marisol shrugged like she didn’t care, but her stomach growled at the same moment, ruining the effect. Ruby didn’t say anything, just hung up her coat in the closet with the flimsy accordion doors. They ate and chatted while they watched TV. After Full House ended, Marisol took a shower using Ruby’s shampoo-conditioner combination. Ruby hung out in the bathroom with her, choosing to continue their conversation because neither of them liked Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper. Ruby wrapped the still-damp towel around Marisol’s shoulders and tidied up her hair during Roseanne.
Coach was just starting when there was a knock at the door.
“Shoot,” Ruby said, jumping up and looking at her watch. “Marisol, darlin’, can you…”
“Sure, Ruby. I know the drill.”
Marisol turned off the TV on her way to the closet. She had a blanket in there and a pillow. Stuffed underneath them inside an old shoebox were her battered Walkman and a few cassettes. The foam was worn away on one side of the headphones, so the metal speaker bit into her ear, but they were loud enough to block out the sound of Ruby working. Marisol didn’t have time to pick a new cassette. She had barely pulled the blanket over her body just in case the john peeked in the closet, when she heard a muffled male voice. She pushed play just in time to cover Ruby’s giggling.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers started singing about a bridge downtown and Marisol let Flea’s bass lines take her away and escape life for a bit. Escape the memories of her mother’s empty eyes. Escape the loneliness and the isolation. Always wanting what she couldn’t have. Always hungry and cold. The beatings from the gang girls. The insults from the guys who’d called her a “lez” when she’d cut her hair.
When something slammed into the door, Marisol thought she’d gotten carried away again, banging her head to the music. She had to be quiet and still. Then it happened again, this time she was sure the impact was from the outside. It bent the door off its track and a crack of light came into the closet. Marisol was trying to shimmy back into the shadows when she heard the sharp impact of skin on skin and Ruby’s whimper. Marisol didn’t know much, but she knew what it sounded like when a man slapped a woman’s face.
Marisol leaned forward to see through the slit just in time to watch the john toss Ruby across the room. She landed on the bed and tried to scramble to her feet, but he was on her in a flash. His hands wrapped around her neck as she scratched at his arms, leaving little red streaks as her face turned red and then purple.
Marisol tried to stand. She tried to shout. She tried to rush out of the closet and attack the man. She couldn’t move. Her limbs were frozen in place. All she could do was watch Ruby’s face turn darker purple and her fingers stop scratching. He let her go and stood up. He swore and kicked at her foot. Ruby’s shoe fell off, but she didn’t move.
The guy straightened his clothes, grabbed his jacket and left. Marisol sat staring at Ruby’s bare foot through “My Lovely Man” and “Sir Psycho Sexy”. She’d played the cassette so often that the tape was stretched at the end. The cover of “They’re Red Hot” played with a slow, distorted voice that would have been creepy in someone else’s life.
The tape finished and the Walkman snapped to a stop, the play button popping back up and making Marisol jump. She dropped it and the force ripped the headphones off her ears. When she stood up, Ruby’s clothes brushed against her body, surrounding her in the smell of cheap perfume, cheaper cologne and unwashed fabric. They smelled like Ruby.
Marisol pushed out of the closet and slid under the bed. She pried up the loose floorboard and grabbed the wad of cash Ruby kept in an old cigar box. There was a battered photograph of a couple wearing clothes from the seventies and a kid who had Ruby’s perfect smile and crooked nose. Marisol left the photo but took the gold watch and diamond earrings. She slid out the other side of the bed to keep her back to Ruby’s body.
She didn’t look back at the bed. She grabbed her cap and the bag of corn chips from the table and slipped out the door, back into a world that wouldn’t let her keep anyone she loved.
Chapter Eight
The pain in Marisol’s jaw jogged her awake. She hadn’t woken up to a sore jaw in so long, it made her feel twenty years old and seventy years old simultaneously. Back when she was a lowly grunt, skipping all over town with no map and no compass, moral or otherwise, living off what her fists and guns could bring her, it was pretty much how every morning started. Back before she had legitimate businesses to run that required a boss without a bruised face. It was astonishing how much time a business front took to maintain.
She listened hard for any sounds around her, but the roar of jet engines was too loud. Snapping her eyes open, she searched for Sloane. Before she could do a sweep of the cramped cabin, her eyes settled on a woman leaning against the far wall. She wore a smug, irritating smile and, as she always did when she saw that grin, Marisol longed to wipe it off her face.
“Jordan. What’s a shriveled up coño like you doing in a nice place like this?”
The smug smile wavered slightly on Jordan’s lips. Resentment curled its edges, but she managed to make it stick. “Happy to see me, Marisol?”
“Thrilled,” she replied sarcastically.
Jordan was so set on appearing relaxed that her entire body was rigid. It didn’t fit well on her frame, like a too-big glove in danger of falling off. It had been several years since Marisol had seen her. She would be thirty by now, a decade younger than Marisol and unremarkable in every way. Average height, average build, short mousey-brown hair and regular features. Jordan had signed on to Marisol’s outfit early and expected to be rewarded well for it, but she lacked the imagination to be useful. Marisol had hooked up with her a few times out of boredom, then discovered the one thing she didn’t lack was ambition.
That ambition would have been something to monitor if Marisol had been a simple criminal. Because her circumstances were more complex, it had seemed prudent to get Jordan’s ambition as far away as possible. Marisol had shipped her off to help operations in a backwater town and promptly forgot about her. Apparently that had been a mistake.
“It’s been a long time, Marisol.”
There was just as much tension in Jordan’s voice as her posture. There had always been a shadow of awe in the way Jordan had looked at Marisol, even when they were intimate, and she couldn’t hide the fact that it was still there.
“Not long enough,” she answered. “Been keeping busy since we last met?”
Jordan looked around the cabin. “Very busy. Though I regret to inform you that I have to resign my position with your outfit.”
“A great loss to the business, I’m sure. Though, if I recall, you weren’t making me a lot of money. The team in Joliet made twice as much as you last year.”
“Fuck the team from Joliet and fuck Peoria. I can’t believe you shipped me out there.”
“You could’ve done well in Peoria, but you obviously had other deals distracting you.”
“You’re goddamn right I did.”
Marisol had always been good at reading people. It was why she had been so successful. She could tell what they were thinking and could use it against them. When she glanced across the room, she saw how the evening’s events were taking a toll on Sloane. She sat too straight, looking purposefully at nothing. After a heartbeat, she glanced at Marisol, giving her the same look of mild distaste Marisol remembered so well from their previous meetings, but there was something else there, too. An undercurrent of desperation. Her nerves were stretched thin and she wouldn’t be able to handle too much of this. Marisol tucked that away for later.
“Well, you’ve certainly co
me up in the world. Tell me, Jordan, did you come up by going down?”
She grinned into the insult, taking the moment while Jordan seethed to look around the room. They weren’t in the plane’s passenger cabin. The walls and floor were bare metal with nothing to muffle the roaring engines. Boxes strapped with netting to the walls on either side suggested a cargo hold. The short wall in front of her held a metal door secured by a formidable bar lock and the seats where Sloane sat with her prim, perfect posture that were so odd in the circumstance.
Marisol was in the center of the open space. Tapping her boot against the chair leg, she heard the echo of hollow metal and felt the thick bolt locking the chair to the floor. Nylon rope bound her legs and chest to the chair while simple metal handcuffs restrained her hands behind her. If she could move a leg, she could bend the legs or smash the welds but she didn’t have the leverage to scratch her ankle, much less break free.
Jordan’s eyes tracked her movements. “Not the throne you’re used to as the Queen of Humboldt.” She sneered out the title, her anger making Marisol’s chest swell with pride. “But it’ll have to do.”
“You afraid of me, Jordan?”
“I know you. That’s why I strapped you down like a rabid dog.”
“I seem to recall you liked it better when I tied you up.”
A blush crept across Jordan’s cheeks. “You don’t know me like you used to.”
“I can barely remember. You didn’t leave much of an impression.”
Jordan’s face grew redder, from anger this time.
Sloane squirmed in her seat. “Whoever you are, I demand…”
Marisol shot her a warning look, but Jordan shouted her response first.
“Shut up, Governor.” Her head snapped around to face Sloane, her eyes wild. “I’ve been extremely polite to you so far, but that can change at any moment.”
Sloane went quiet, but she didn’t look half as frightened as she should’ve been. Jordan had been famous for her volatile temper. It was the reason no one in the gang was too sad to see her banished to suburban hell. Maybe Sloane had a temper herself—she looked like she wanted to shout back. Warning bells sounded in Marisol’s head.
“Why have you been so kind to Governor Sloane? You did try to kill her. In fact, Plan B was far more effective than Plan A. Why the crude initial attempt?”
The acknowledgement of her success wasn’t exactly a compliment, but it was soothing enough to turn her attention back to Marisol, who allowed herself a single, shallow breath.
“It would only be crude if my goal was to kill her.”
“What was the goal then? If you were trying to tickle the Governor, you’ve taken an odd approach.”
“Oh no, not yet.” Jordan waved her finger in the air. “This goes at my pace.”
“You shouldn’t be able to afford a plane like this, Jordan. You shouldn’t be able to afford a plane at all on what I pay you.”
She strode across the cabin, sliding her fingertips across Marisol’s back as she circled behind her.
“You aren’t the only one who pays me.” She stood in front of Marisol, crowding her space. “I’ve been two-timing for a while now. That’s something you should know all about.”
Shock boiled up inside Marisol but she forced her features to remain neutral. All these years and no one had figured out her secret. She’d been careful—so damn careful. How could an idiot like Jordan figure it out?
She flicked her eyes to Sloane, who was staring with disgust at the back of Jordan’s head. Her chest was heaving and her frayed edges were becoming more evident. Time was up. Marisol needed time to think and Sloane needed the room empty.
Marisol swallowed hard and let her eyes drift languorously up Jordan’s body. She put a seductive purr in her voice and was pleased to hear Jordan’s breath hitch as she spoke, “But darling, two-timing? You shouldn’t even be able to sell that.” She shot a grin at Jordan’s crotch. “You’re shit in bed, cariño. You’d be lucky to be able to give it away. Unless you’ve learned some new tricks in the last few years. Or, you know, any tricks at all.”
The first punch landed on Marisol’s left flank and pushed every ounce of air out of her. The second landed on her right and the world tilted on its axis. She smiled and a fist smashed into her nose, taking her off into oblivion.
Chapter Nine
1996
The boombox was playing so loudly the whole thing vibrated, rattling against the heavy oak tabletop. Three men in identical grey suits leaned over it, rocking to the frenetic beat. Each had the telltale bulge of a handgun at their armpit, straining the cheap fabric. None of them paid any attention to the door, even when it opened.
Marisol slipped in quietly, letting the music cover her entrance. The song was from the new Beastie Boys album. She didn’t know the name of the track, but she recognized it from her many trips to lift CDs from the store. That album sold well on the street.
Her gang followed her into the warehouse. Only five of them were willing to risk Marisol’s plan, and four of the five looked like they regretted their bravado already. Only Gray looked confident. He had her back, and that was all she needed. The rest of them were just a show of force. All they had to do was wait until after the deal was done to piss their pants.
She stepped into the light and crossed her arms, her gang spreading out behind her. It took several long moments before the idiots listening to their hip hop noticed the intruders. Marisol focused her attention on the obvious leader, a man with slicked-back hair and Ray-Bans. He leaped to his feet when he spotted her, slapping the nearest lackey, who switched off the boombox.
“What’s this?” Ray-Ban asked, an oily grin splitting his lips. “The Girl Scouts sellin’ cookies?”
His accent had a cadence familiar from New York cop shows and a fake tan turned his pale skin orange.
“I believe you were expecting us,” Marisol said, keeping her arms folded.
The men laughed, deeply and in unison. Marisol felt her face go hot, which only made them laugh louder. Finally, Ray-Ban held up his hand and the room went silent.
“You’re in the wrong room, little girl. Walk away and I’ll forget I saw you here.” He paused for a moment before saying in a less friendly tone, “This is the only chance I’ll give you.”
The laughter chafed but it didn’t deter Marisol. She held out her hand to Gray and he handed her a bulging duffel bag. The weight of it pulled her shoulder uncomfortably, but she never broke eye contact with Ray-Ban while she unzipped it and dropped it onto the floor at her feet. Gold watches and glittering diamonds spilled out onto the dusty concrete and the men stopped laughing.
Ray-Ban sucked his teeth, then snapped his fingers, sending a minion scurrying from the room. The leader cut an impressive figure, waiting with meaty arms folded across his chest. Well over six feet tall with a neck the size of a tree trunk and hands like sledgehammers, he would intimidate any sixteen-year-old girl, even one with something to prove. Marisol, who wasn’t just any sixteen-year-old girl and had nothing to prove, was not intimidated.
The guy returned, pushing a rolling cart out of the shadows into the light by the table. It was piled high with strapped bundles of cash—twenties and fifties and a few smaller packs of hundreds. Marisol felt the girl to her right stiffen and twitch at the sight. She could almost hear her entire crew salivating at the sight of so much money.
“One hundred k, as agreed.” Ray-Ban strode across the room, waving his arm like some after-school special version of Vanna White to indicate his payment. “That’s if the goods are genuine.”
“They’re genuine,” Marisol replied, watching him closely.
Ray-Ban bent to lift a diamond necklace from the floor, fitting a jeweler’s glass to his eye. While he inspected the necklace one of his men turned out the bag on the table, the tangle of chains, rings and watches glittering in the low light.
“You raid ya momma’s jewelry box for this stuff?” Ray-Ban asked, tossing the necklace onto
the table with the rest of the loot.
“You don’t need to know how we got it,” Marisol replied, sticking her chin out as far as she could manage. “I charge extra for story time.”
“Don’t be an idiot!” he shouted, making everyone jump except Marisol and Gray. “There’s no place for you in this. This is a game for adults. No kids allowed.”
It was time, and Marisol was ready. She yanked the Glock from her waistband. It was absurdly large in her hands, but the weight was familiar as she leveled it at Ray-Ban’s chest. His goons weren’t quick enough, and she had him in her sights before they could raise their weapons. Gray and the rest of Marisol’s gang belatedly whipped out their own guns.
“I have the product and you have the network to move what I’ve got. There are two choices. You can buy from me and we can all make a killing.” Her heart pounded, thrilled at the standoff she’d created. “Or I can make a killing now and keep it all for myself.”
Ray-Ban laughed. It echoed maniacally in the silent warehouse, bouncing off the cocked guns and reverberating in the nervous sweat on everyone’s forehead. He started a slow, sinister clap that echoed his slow, sinister march right into Marisol’s space. She held him with her eyes, waiting for his next move. He got into her face, his breath reeking of garlic.
“I like you, little girl.” He reached for her face and she pushed the barrel of her Glock against his chest. He paused for a moment, but when she didn’t fire, he ran thick fingers through her short, choppy hair. “You’re like me. Except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a snarl. His hand went from her hair to her neck in a flash, the pad of his thumb pressing against her throat. Before she could register her breath being cut off, he pulled out a flashy, chrome-plated Colt 45.
“I’ve got a bigger…”
He never finished the sentence. Marisol squeezed the trigger and he jerked back from her. She squeezed the trigger again and he released her neck. She squeezed it a third time and smelled burning fabric.
Queen of Humbolt Page 5
