Uptown Thief (23 page)

“Looks good,” he said, without looking up, and the waitress went to help another customer.

Woof cut his steak. His eyes closed as he chewed, then he looked at Tyesha.

“I can't tell who my friends are half the time,” he said. “Are they down or just trying to get something? I really can't tell with females. I don't know. You're fine as hell. I knew where I stood from the beginning. I don't mean to sound rude, but in my business most females offer up the pussy and hope to get paid later. You asked in advance. I didn't even get it and you got paid.” He cut another bite of steak. “And you checked me on my manners, because it wasn't about the money. Then I took you to the Oscars and you held your own. I never meet chicks on my level who also make me feel at home.”

The two of them ate quietly for a while. She had to admit that he cleaned up well.

“So how come you said yes to going out again?” he asked. “You already got your red carpet moment.”

She finished eating a mouthful of yams. “Some of the same reasons, I guess. In my experience you can't tell a dude you're a sex worker. But you can't really build something with somebody if you can't be honest about what you do for money.”

“I feel that,” he said, draining his wine glass. “But I feel the brothers, too. I mean, if we keep talking, at some point, I might trip a little off your job.”

“If we keep talking, at some point, I might trip a little off
your
job.”

They both laughed.

Later that night, when Woof drove Tyesha to her apartment in Brooklyn, he walked her to her door. Tyesha had rehearsed her “not yet,” for when he asked to come in.

“I had a really nice time tonight,” he said, lingering for a moment on the steps, then leaned in to give her a good night kiss. She could smell the oil in his hair and feel the heat of his body. He pressed his closed lips softly against hers. The kiss lingered, then he stepped back and said good night.

She watched his long frame swagger down the street. He didn't look back. She savored the feeling of excitement in her body. Turned on and nothing she had to do.

* * *

The following day, Marisol and Eva sat in Marisol's office. There was a tentative knock on the door, and they both said, “Come in.”

Dulce's hair and makeup were a mess, and her cheek was bruised. Her white dress was smudged with dirt, makeup, and blood.

Marisol took the girl in her arms.

“This time it's for good,” Dulce said. “I swear. I don't care what he promises or threatens. I'm leaving the city when I get healed up. I got a cousin in Detroit.”

“Dulce, you don't need to promise us anything,” Marisol said.

“Our support is unconditional,” Eva said. “You get to decide the right next step.”

Dulce began to sob into Marisol's shoulder. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm one of the lucky ones. I was born here, but all the other girls are illegal. All I have to do is get on a bus, and I can't do it. I'm weak and I deserve what I get from him.”

Marisol's stomach burned hearing the words aloud.
“Mentiras
,” Marisol said. “Nobody deserves to be hurt like that.”

“You're not weak, sweetheart,” Eva said. “You just have patterns. As a result of trauma. It's not your fault.”

Dulce nodded.

“Men like Jerry use your vulnerability against you,” Marisol said. “He knew you needed a family. But we're your family now. And you don't have to earn it.”

Eva peeled Dulce's arms from around Marisol. “Let's go to my office and make a plan for you, okay?”

Dulce nodded.

Marisol wiped Dulce's eyes. “I'll check on you later.” She kissed her on the forehead and slipped out the door to set up additional security.

* * *

After midnight, a firebomb sailed through the front window, right past both security guards. The sound of breaking glass and the explosion woke half the building. A stack of magazines in the front lobby caught fire and the game table started to burn. The fire alarm and the sprinkler system engaged. The shrieking alarm woke up the remaining women in the building, plus half the block. Women went running out into the street.

Marisol called the fire department on her way downstairs. She stood out on the sidewalk in socks, jeans, and a pajama top. Many women wore only T-shirts and underwear. The pavement was near freezing. One of the women stood with a baby and a small toddler, shivering.

Women continued to spill out from the clinic's side exit.

* * *

The Hummer idled in the shadows. When Dulce ran out of the building, one of Jerry's thugs grabbed her.

Dulce screamed as the thug pulled her in front of him. He was wiry with ropy, muscled arms.

“This is what happens to bitches who disobey,” Jerry yelled from the Hummer. “Watch closely, you stupid cunts.”

His thug went to cut Dulce's throat, like a performance, grinning at Dulce's terror. He held her in a vise grip under one arm, and waved the knife in front of her, watching all the women clench in horror each time it drew close to her throat.

Everyone, including Jerry, had their eyes on the knife and Dulce. Marisol crept around behind them. She pulled a gun from the waistband of her jeans. She had a good angle, and a nice dark spot next to a minivan. She aimed and the shot rang loud in the street. Women hit the pavement. Jerry looked around, shocked.

The thug took the bullet in the back and collapsed. Dulce shrieked and jumped away from him. The knife clattered to the ground.

A siren wailed in the distance, and the Hummer screeched away from the curb.

Marisol shoved the gun in the back of her waistband and gathered the screaming Dulce into her arms.

Chapter 23

E
va had just taken Dulce up to Marisol's apartment when the emergency vehicles arrived. The ambulance took the bleeding thug to the hospital. Meanwhile, Serena explained to the fire department that the sprinkler system had doused the blaze in the lobby. Fortunately, the damage was contained on the first floor.

Marisol's body had just begun to shake when she heard a knock on her office door. She clenched her body against the wave of trembling. “Come in,” she said.

Raul stepped into the office.

“What the hell?” she asked. “Did your cop friends call you?”

“Clinic security called me,” Raul said. “Unlike you, Marisol, they realize when they need help.”

“I don't need your help,” she said.

“Is it true you're the one who shot that asshole?” Raul asked.

Marisol nodded.

“If you don't want to spend time in jail, then you do need my help.”

“You wanna help?” she asked. “I hope you're ready to back me up with the cops, because the gun is only registered in Florida.”

“You have a clear case of self-defense,” Raul said. “But why have a gun lying around?”

“We've gotten death threats,” Marisol said. “From pimps, fundamentalist Christian extremists, and nearby landlords who threatened to torch our building for bringing down property values. I hoped never to use it. But he was gonna slit her throat. Right there in front of everyone, including children.”

“I'll vouch for you, but I can't promise,” Raul said. “NYC gun laws are strict.”

* * *

Over the next hour, Marisol told her story to two different officers.

Raul came back into the office. “Guy's in critical but stable condition, so no homicide. They'll drop the gun charges, but they confiscated the weapon,” he said.

“What about Jerry?” she asked.

“Did he shoot up in the air the other day?” Raul asked. “The one you said was no big deal?”

“I can't believe he fucking firebombed my clinic,” she said.

“I know you're not crazy about NYPD, but I can make a call,” Raul said. “The new head of the precinct isn't a dick like the last guy. You need to let them help you.”

“How? Jerry got past the security guards with the firebomb. What can the cops do?”

“Cops carry guns.”

“Their guns aren't worth shit unless they're pointing at the psycho pimp in front of my building. Cops can't be here twenty-four-seven.”

They headed back out to the street, where the smoke was clearing.

A woman firefighter came up to Marisol. “You're the executive director?”

Marisol nodded.

“It was just the waiting room. Good thing your sprinklers activate only in the area they detect smoke. Otherwise you woulda soaked the whole building. Oughta be able to get that front room back in shape within the week.”

“Thank you so much,” Marisol said.

Raul walked back over to Marisol and pointed to the front door. “Has this door been open the whole time?”

“I guess so,” she said. “But the security guards would have—”

“Half the time, the security guards were being questioned by the cops,” Raul said. “One of them was getting treated for a minor injury. Plus, the fire department was in and out. I don't know how well the cops had it cordoned off.”

“Shit,” Marisol said. “I didn't even think to—”

“Jerry could have come back and be waiting somewhere inside.”

“Just in the front area,” Marisol said. “The upstairs and the back are secure.”

“I'm not leaving until we search the whole place,” Raul said.

Marisol didn't like it. She still suspected Raul might be trying to set her up, but she liked the idea of Jerry hiding in the office even less.

* * *

They searched the building, all the patient rooms in the clinic, the conference room, the medical and psych staff offices. Marisol looked into the large multipurpose room.

Dulce sat on one of the beds, huddled beside a platinum blond African American girl rubbing her back.

“You have people living here?” Raul asked, after Marisol had closed the door. “How did I miss that when I volunteered?”

“It's only at night,” Marisol said. “A limited, temporary shelter for a few clients. Women who need protection from pimps and boyfriends. Tonight's drama is why it's such a risk to have clients living in.”

Raul nodded. They searched the rest of the lower floors. When they went into the supply room, Marisol remembered them on hands and knees in the dark. The adrenaline from the shooting was subsiding, but her pulse quickened again.

Marisol shook it off, as they confirmed the last few rooms were empty.

“I hate feeling like someone's coming after me,” Marisol said. “I shoulda shot Jerry while I had the chance.”

“Then you'd be getting booked for murder,” Raul said.

“Justifiable homicide,” Marisol said. She turned away from the softness of his lips, the open caring on his face. “I need a fucking drink.”

She swiped her card at the security door and they walked up to the fourth floor. She went right to the office's liquor cabinet, and poured them two glasses of rum.

For nearly an hour they drank in silence, on opposite ends of the couch. Marisol put away the better part of the bottle. She stared out the window.

She heard every swish of fabric against the leather sofa when Raul moved, every tap of his glass against the coffee table, every swallow of liquid down his throat.

She considered asking him to leave, but she didn't want to be alone. She should have asked Eva to stay, or Serena.

“You ever kill anyone?” Raul asked, out of nowhere.

“Just once,” Marisol said. “You?”

“Bunch of times.” He shrugged. “Part of being a cop.”

She took another swallow of her drink.

“What happened?” he asked.

She knew she shouldn't say anything, but having been raised in part by her Catholic grandmother, the confession felt inevitable. “I came from a super fucked-up family,” Marisol said. “I finally figured a way to improve it.”

“My sister always suspected something,” Raul said. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” Marisol leaned back on the couch with her rum.

“You were always like that,” Raul said. “Smart and a badass, but nobody could figure you out.”

“That's how I like it.” She stood to refill her glass.

“It seems like it might get lonely under that mysterious exterior,” he said.

“Guys lust after the mystery girl they can wonder about,” Marisol said. “The yet-to-be-sorted girl. Good girl? Bad girl? The not knowing kept everybody interested. If I had slept with half the football team or gone steady with one guy for a year, I wouldn't have been half as fascinating.”

“How come you keep lumping me with all the other guys in high school?” Raul asked. “I wasn't some dog. After you graduated, I had a girlfriend all through junior and senior year.”

“So what happened?” Marisol asked. “Why aren't you two married now?”

“She went off to Duke,” Raul said. “Then medical school. She's a surgeon in Ohio. Married another doctor.”

“When do I get to learn all about you?” Marisol asked. “You've been pretty nosy in my alleged love life. My girls think you're hot, even the gay ones. You must have had some luck with the ladies since high school.”

“I don't really care if all your girls think I'm hot,” Raul said. “I don't like girls, I like women. Grown, smart women who happen to—”

“Don't change the subject,” Marisol said, smiling. “Tell me about your love life.”

“You first,” he said. “Have you ever been in love?”

“Nope,” Marisol said. “I've always been married to my work.” She wasn't ready to tell him about her history of sex work. Or uptown hookups. But he had asked about love, not sex. “I've . . . dated . . . a bunch. But . . . love wasn't really on the table . . . I lived with a guy for a while.”

“Okay,” Raul said. He accepted her words at face value, and she felt uneasy. She hadn't lied, but she could see he had gotten a distorted picture.

“I dated a woman I met in the police academy for a while,” he said. “I was engaged to somebody else when I was a rookie.” He looked down at his glass. “A lot of smart women are freaked out by cops. Once I joined the force, I kept meeting these badge bunnies. Women with a thing for cops. It was cute at first, but then it got creepy. Like the guy didn't matter, they were just turned on by the uniform.”

“Come on, Raul,” Marisol said. “You're good-looking, smart, friendly. I can't believe you have trouble meeting women.”

“Not trouble meeting women.” Raul shook his head. “Trouble staying interested. At some point, the cop thing got in the way. Either they couldn't handle the lifestyle, or they had a thing about it, always pulling some damsel-in-distress shit to manipulate me.”

“‘Damsel in distress'?” Marisol said. “Aren't you here tonight on a rescue mission with me?”

“That's different,” Raul said. “Your building got firebombed. You shot a man trying to slit a woman's throat. That's calling for backup, not calling with some bullshit. I can't tell you how many times women have called me after we had a fight or I was mad and I walked out, talking about, ‘Oh, Raul, I heard a noise in the apartment and I'm scared.'” He took a swig of the drink. “Be woman enough to say that you're sorry and you want me to come over. I'm not turned on by helplessness.”

“I can see how after a day of rescuing people, it would get tired pretty quick to do that at home.”

“Bingo,” Raul said, downing the last of his drink.

“But you stopped being a cop,” Marisol said. “Then what got in the way of your love life?”

“Me.” Raul laughed. “I was bitter after the NYPD burned me, just sort of a brooding jerk.” He poured himself another shot of rum.

“You?” Marisol laughed. “I can't see it.”

She emptied the bottle into her glass. When she set it down, it clacked loudly against the glass coffee tabletop. She stood to get another bottle and the room tilted. The back of the couch was her safety rail as she crossed the carpet to the liquor cabinet.

“Can I get you a refill?” she asked.

“I shouldn't,” he said. “I can't be hungover tomorrow.”

She crossed back to lean on the end of the sofa. “Don't go home,” Marisol said. “Stay.” She put a hand on his arm.

Between the shooting and the alcohol and him showing up to help, she was unraveling. All the rules seemed absurd, irrelevant. The space between their bodies seemed wasted. He looked down and took a deep breath. “I can't, Marisol. I—you shot a man tonight.” He looked at her. Those improbably long lashes, the brown of his eyes that hid the pupil. “You've been drinking. I don't know if this is what you really want or the rum talking, or you're just reaching out for somebody.” He looked down again. “I can't be that guy who fills the gap. I been in love with you since I was thirteen.”

She closed her eyes and felt the impact of his declaration. She wanted his body—but more than that, she didn't want him to leave. “We don't have to do anything. Just stay.”

“I'm not capable of staying and not doing anything,” he said. “If I lie down in a room with you, I'm coming after you.”

“Sleep on the couch,” Marisol said. “I'll be upstairs. A whole floor away. You'd be safe.”

“Don't count on it,” he said with a dry chuckle. “But I'll stay.”

She opened the cabinet behind the couch and took down some bedding, careful to keep her balance.

“This place is a maze. I'd never be able to find you,” he said.

“I feel like such a punk, even asking,” she said.

“You saved a life tonight,” Raul said. “You deserve some backup.”

* * *

In the morning, Marisol felt paranoid again. She ran her fingers through her hair and brushed her teeth before coming downstairs.

“Buenos días
,
”
she said.

“Hey,” Raul said. He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Nine thirty-five,” she said. “I didn't know what time you needed to get up.”

“Oh shit,” he said. “I had no idea. It's pitch dark in here.”

“Heavy drapes,” she said.

He stood and stumbled around in a tank top and boxers. She turned on the overhead light, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted, gathering up his clothes and personal items.

She surveyed his muscled legs, his ass holding up the boxers, his shoulders and chest visible inside and out of the thin undershirt.

“I got a meeting at ten,” he said. “Thanks for waking me.”

Marisol waved it off as she walked him across the outer office lobby.

He stopped at the door to the stairway. “I—” He leaned forward as if to hug her good-bye. “I should go,” he said, and headed down the stairs.

She stood staring after him. The door banged shut at the bottom of the stairwell. She wanted to run to catch up with him. Tell him she wasn't drunk anymore, that it wasn't about shooting a man, that he wasn't just some guy. Some scrap of her dream at the beach came back to her, not the image but the feeling. The way it felt so right to be with him.

She shook her head.
Noooo, girl. No.
She didn't have time for daydreams. Back at her desk, she called the insurance company.