WHEN TONY’S INCARCERATION WAS confirmed, morale at the office nosedived. Mathew was hit hardest. He found himself promoted to a job that he didn’t want and was barely qualified to do. I got my first glimpse of just how out-of-his-depth Mathew was when I showed up at the office a few days after Tony had been imprisoned. “Pick up the fucking phones!” Mathew pleaded, but the clerks, especially the new guys, were barely reacting. It was like seeing a weak-willed substitute teacher confronting an unruly classroom. No one showed him any respect whatsoever.
The air of misery in the office was palpable. The clerks had flown down, seduced by Ron’s fairy-tale promises of highly paid work on a beautiful tropical island, free of police hassles. The reality was very different from the sales pitch. They were marooned in a crumbling, chaotic city, miles from any beach. They were homesick and overworked—eating unfamiliar foods, getting eaten alive by bugs, and answering phones for eight hours a day in a hot, muggy office where no one seemed to be in charge. Tony had been able to hold the place together through sheer force of personality. Now that he was gone, the atmosphere was quickly turning rebellious. Even the guys I had known from L.A. barely mumbled hello to me.
I pulled Mathew aside one day and scolded him when we were out of earshot of the others. “You need to take control of this place! And you need to get someone in to clean up. It’s a pigsty!”
The clutter and mess in the office only added to the sense of disarray. Mathew gave me a look filled with such hostility that it made me catch my breath. The gentle giant’s mask had slipped, and it scared me. He stormed back into the office without another word.
I popped my head into the Small Office to see how they were coping, and was greeted by another sea of gloomy faces. At least the mess wasn’t as bad here. Roger—whom I had first met at Dan Tana’s—was running his office with markedly more success than Mathew. He looked dapper as he stood up to give me a hug.
“How are you bearing up, sweetheart?” he asked, his face lined with concern.
“As well as possible.”
Justine squirmed in my arms and Roger’s face melted. “Can I hold her for a minute?”
With Roger making goo-goo eyes at Justine, I took the opportunity to tear through the Big Office with a garbage bag, tossing in all of the candy wrappers, bottles of beer, and cigarette butts I could lay my hands on. Soon the call I’d been waiting for came in. “T-bone on four!” Ironically, the only way I could talk to Tony while he was in prison was on the 1–800 number that connected to the office.
“Watch what you say,” Carmine warned. “The call will be monitored.”
“I’m sorry,” Tony said as soon as I picked up.
Just hearing his voice brought tears to my eyes. “We’re fine,” I assured him. “Don’t worry about us. Just worry about you in there.”
Tony assured me that he was okay and asked about Justine. There was nothing else for us to talk about. The clerks were listening on my end, and someone was listening in on his. Even saying “I love you” felt awkward.
I returned to the office a few days later for another scheduled call with Tony. Despite Mathew’s angry reaction, my pep talk seemed to have had the desired effect. The office was spotless. The young Dominican girl responsible for this transformation was mopping the floors in the hallway. Her face lit up when she saw Justine. She shyly held out her arms to hold her.
“Justine,” I said, gently passing my daughter over. “Soy Marisa.”
“Soy Rosa,” she smiled back.
WHEN I RETURNED TO the hotel, I was surprised to discover a cooler waiting at the front desk, addressed to Mr. Santino. The bellboy brought it up to the room and I flipped up the lid, curious.
“I’ll be damned,” I laughed. Inside, nestled in ice, were twenty tiny cartons of American milk, along with Remo’s business card.
“Tony’s been detained on a business matter,” I told Remo, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice when I rang to thank him. I was touched at how disappointed he sounded, and chose the moment to ask my own favor. “I was wondering if you would help us find a place to live?” I knew Remo spoke fluent Spanish and understood the island and its customs. He also seemed to be the only person here capable of getting anything done.
“Okay,” he said. “Let me see what I can do.”
I TOOK A TAXI to Remo’s studio apartment a week later, as arranged. He answered the door holding a file filled with newspaper clippings. Out in the bright sunlight and wearing his casual clothes, Remo seemed much younger than I’d first assumed. He looked like he was in his early twenties. He seemed shy, slightly awkward even—very different from the confident, witty man I’d met at Atlántico. The eyes, however, were exactly as I’d remembered them. They were soulful, almost melancholy, as if they belonged to someone decades older.
Remo gave the driver an address and we headed to Mirador Norte, a middle-class neighborhood. We turned off the main street and pulled up in front of a pale-pink apartment complex. The guard stationed outside was armed with a rifle. Remo told me that this was standard. Guards were cheap to hire, and held responsible in case of a robbery.
We went up to a third-floor apartment and were shown around by the landlord. The place was bright and clean, and the kitchen was adequate. Yet the dismal, windowless room beyond it was crammed with two beds and a toilet. I was shocked when Remo identified it as the servants’ quarters. When the landlord produced the paperwork, Remo looked it over. His brow furrowed. After a tense conversation in Spanish, he turned to me.
“Time to go,” he said.
“What’s the rush?” I asked, hurrying after him.
“I’ll tell you in the car.”
As we drove to our next appointment, Remo told me that the landlord—who had advertised the apartment for three thousand, two hundred pesos a month—was now asking for six hundred U.S. dollars a month. This amounted to eighteen hundred pesos more than the original price. “It’s going to be a problem for you,” he said. “Most landlords are going to take one look at you and assume you’re just another rich gringo they can take advantage of.”
This was the first of many outings Remo and I would take in search of an apartment. By the third round I no longer questioned his motivations for turning down apartments that appeared to be perfectly acceptable. He knew all the right questions to ask, and was clearly looking out for my best interests. As our search unfolded, I began to understand exactly why Tony had taken such a shine to him. He was intelligent and easy to talk to, and had a wry sense of humor. On top of all this he was a fantastic guide to Santo Domingo, and I learned something new about the city every time we met up.
One day we pulled up outside a white apartment building bordering a lush courtyard. A distinguished gray-haired gentleman approached us as Remo apologized in Spanish for our lateness. Señor Torres introduced himself in perfect English. We followed him to the top-floor apartment. The moment I stepped inside, I fell in love with the place. It was bright and modern, with skylights and polished marble floors. The kitchen was brand-new, and the living and dining areas were spacious. A large covered balcony overlooked the courtyard below. The airy master bedroom had an en suite bathroom, accompanied by two further bedrooms and a guest bathroom where the shower was open to the sky above.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, walking awestruck from room to room. “It’s perfect.”
When Señor Torres inquired about my husband’s business, I stuck to the familiar line about Tony selling sensitive information on high-risk ventures. Remo looked the paperwork over and told me that the price was fair. We were finally getting our own apartment. I knew Tony would be thrilled to come home to this place.
I was beaming by the time we got back in the taxi. “You’ll need to have the contract notarized by a lawyer,” Remo mentioned in the car. “I can recommend someone.”
“I already have a lawyer,” I said. I showed him Gustavo’s card.
Remo looked it over, frowning. “Never heard of him.”
“Well, apparently he’s very well connected.”
Remo shook his head. “No, he isn’t. Marisa, if he were well connected, I’d have heard of him. What does he look like?”
“Short, chubby black guy.”
Remo laughed. “What color black?”
This confused me. “I don’t know. Just … black.”
“There’s no such thing as just black here. Race is a huge deal. You know how they say that the Eskimos have twenty-eight words for snow? Well, Dominicans have almost as many to describe skin color. It’s not just about color—it’s about class. Status. Black—real black—that’s at the bottom of the pile. Haitians are black, and let’s just say that the Dominicans don’t treat them very well. They’re exploited for cheap labor: construction, the sugar industry, whorehouses. If you call a Haitian black, they won’t give a shit. But if you call a Dominican black, that’s an insult.”
At moments like this I realized how far away from home I was. “That’s pretty unjust.”
“It is. But the reason I’m bringing this up is that lawyers are rarely black here. So what color black is your lawyer?”
“Um … mulatto?”
“Hm. What kind of car does he drive?”
It seemed like a strange question, but I played along. “A Pinto. A ’72 Pinto.”
Remo burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.” “No? What’s so funny?”
“Trust me, Marisa. If your lawyer is driving a piece of crap like that, then I’ll tell you, sight unseen, this guy doesn’t have the kind of clout you think he has. If you’re serious about starting up a business on the island, you need to find someone better, and do it quick. Your guy might have a brother or a cousin in the army, but basically, he’s a nobody. Straight up, he wouldn’t make it through the door at the Atlántico.”
“That’s harsh, Remo.”
“I know. But believe me,” Remo chuckled, “well connected, powerful lawyers in this country do not drive ‘72 Pintos.”
As the taxi pulled up at the intersection, the usual crowd of beggars and peddlers swarmed the stationary cars. Remo rolled down his window and shook hands with a one-armed, one-legged man who greeted him by name. They chatted in Spanish for a while, and as they talked another peddler recognized Remo and came over to say hello. I was astonished. “They didn’t even ask you for money!”
“Those guys gave up trying to hustle me years ago. They know I’m struggling to get by myself.”
I was struck by how different Remo’s attitude toward the street people was from Gustavo’s. Remo saw them as human beings. Gustavo, on the other hand, saw them as scum. At that moment I made a snap decision that I would not deal with Gustavo again if I could help it.
I asked Remo for the phone number of the lawyer he had recommended. As he got out of the taxi, I thanked him again for his help. “I owe you a drink,” I said.
“Sorry,” he grinned. “I don’t drink.”
“Me neither. Maybe dinner, then?”
“When your husband gets back, stop by Atlántico.” The way he said it made it clear he had no intention of seeing me socially without Tony present. His reserve was slightly old-fashioned and charming. I suppose he thought that Tony would mind. On the other hand, there wasn’t any attraction between us, and I would have liked to have a friend on the island. I knew I would miss our regular apartment-hunting sessions. As Remo walked away, I sensed a heavy undertow of sadness. He had integrated himself completely in the Dominican Republic, but it seemed obvious to me how much he missed America.
I set out early the next morning to buy a fridge, a stove, propane tanks, and ten meters of copper piping to hook them up. I bought the biggest mattress I could find, and ordered furniture from a factory that Remo had recommended. I carried bottles of water, groceries, toys, and suitcases up the stairs until my legs ached.
At seven that evening the lights in the new apartment winked off—and with them, the water. At eight I put Justine to bed. Left alone, I sat outside on the balcony. It was a pitch-black, breezeless evening. Waiting for the electricity to come back on, I experienced the profound silence of a power outage. I could hear the leaves rustling on the trees in the courtyard below. An animal skittered off somewhere in the bushes. From far away I heard the low drone of approaching cars.
The next morning I woke up to a rooster crowing. I was sticky with sweat, and discovered that my entire body was covered in angry, itchy red welts. Justine was in a similar state. We still had no electricity, and no water to shower. I grabbed a taxi, heading out to buy mosquito nets and lanterns. Within minutes, we found ourselves stuck in a seemingly endless traffic jam. The electricity was out everywhere.
Suddenly we heard the crash of metal on metal. The traffic around us ground to a complete halt. Our driver cursed and threw his hands up in frustration. For the time being, we were going nowhere. Moments later I heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. The silence that followed was eerie.
When the traffic began inching forward again, there was no honking, no yells of frustration. As we approached the accident I saw a light-skinned man dressed in a business suit, leaning against the hood of his slightly damaged Mercedes. In his hand—with no effort to conceal it—was a pistol.
Behind his car was a vehicle that looked like it had been welded together from parts of ten different cars. The windshield was splattered with blood. I caught a horrifying glimpse of the driver, a Haitian man. He was slumped forward over the steering wheel, his face slick with blood. With a shudder I looked away.
As we crawled past the macabre sight, the shooter remained leaning against his Mercedes. His face showed no remorse whatsoever. He looked mildly annoyed, as if he were running late for an appointment. He and everyone around him knew that killing a Haitian would have no consequence for him whatsoever.