TONY COULDN’T GET HOLD of Gustavo, so we couldn’t return to the Dominican Republic that evening. It was too risky. Tony and I would be entering the country carrying $300,000 in cash. We needed the protection of an armed escort. I knew that if we couldn’t reach Gustavo by morning, we would miss the next flight as well, so I suggested that Tony call Remo. His friend Miguel Garcia had collected me every time I returned to Santo Domingo with payroll.
Tony called Atlántico. I could hear Remo on the other end promising to take care of everything. Then Tony covered the mouthpiece and asked me how many people worked for us now. I told him twenty-three. “Hey Remo,” Tony said. “Make a reservation for me for tomorrow night. Twenty-four people for dinner, at nine o’clock.” As Tony hung up, I cringed at the thought of the guys from the office showing up at a formal place like Atlántico. With the exception of Roger and Tony, our clerks dressed appallingly. I was willing to bet that most of them didn’t even own a pair of slacks.
The following day, we met Miguel Garcia at the Santo Domingo airport. He swept us through customs and immigration without a problem. Always eager to practice my elementary Spanish, I asked him a few questions as we went. Tony was surprised that I was bothering to learn the language. For him Santo Domingo was a temporary hitch, so why bother?
Miguel pulled into the courtyard and helped us carry everything upstairs. Tony took a quick tour around our new home, and I introduced him to Rosa, who was now Justine’s live-in nanny. Tony barely had time to shower and change before heading to Atlántico. I unpacked and hid the diamond ring and earrings on the top shelf in the closet, where I imagined they would remain for years. Exhausted after all the traveling and high emotion of the past few days, I collapsed into bed and fell into a deep sleep.
Crash!
I blinked awake, utterly confused. I glanced at the bedside clock—it was 3:00 a.m. I reached across to the other side of the bed, but it was empty. The bedroom door flew open and Tony staggered in. He dumped his briefcase on the top of the dresser and slammed the door behind him. In no time he was naked and on top of me. He pulled my nightgown up, slurring, “I love you, babe … ” I reminded myself that he’d been away for six long months and was trying to make up for lost time.
The next morning, I crept out of bed, closing the door softly behind me. Justine was just learning to walk and she tottered around the apartment, leading me by the hand. At ten o’clock, Tony finally appeared, looking hung over and angry. “Where’s my briefcase?” he demanded.
“Isn’t it on the dresser?”
I followed Tony into the bedroom. The briefcase was gone. He maniacally searched the apartment before collapsing on the couch. He cradled his head in pain. “I don’t need this,” he groaned. “This is bullshit. That girl must have stolen it … ”
At first I didn’t realize whom he meant. “Are you talking about Rosa? No way, Tony. You’re wrong.”
“Oh yeah? Well, the briefcase is gone. I doubt you or Justine took it, so that only leaves one other person.”
Tony went upstairs to search Rosa’s room. She burst into tears as she realized that she was being accused of theft. He stormed back downstairs.
“Call Remo,” he snarled, “and tell him to get over here.” He staggered off to the bedroom. A moment later I heard him yell, “Why is there no water? ”
As I listened to him rant and rage, I realized that Tony was going to have a harder time than I’d assumed adjusting to life in the Dominican Republic. As a prisoner in the United States, he’d still been provided with uninterrupted water and electricity. This was a luxury the government in the D.R. still failed to deliver to its general population.
Soon there was an urgent knock at the door. Tony, still shirtless and unshaven, ushered Remo in.
“What’s going on?” Remo asked. “What’s the emergency?”
“The maid stole my briefcase.”
“Oh, bullshit, Tony!” I yelled. I would have bet that Rosa hadn’t stolen anything in her entire life.
“She must have snuck into our bedroom, took it, and threw it off the balcony to her boyfriend or something,” Tony theorized as he paced furiously. “The only way in and out of here is that door, and I locked it.”
“Are you sure you brought your briefcase home from Atlántico?”
“Yeah. I put it on the dresser. I’ve turned this place up and down, man. It’s gone, and nobody else could have taken it. Look, Remo, talk to the girl. Tell her nothing will happen to her so long as I get the briefcase back.”
Remo nodded and went upstairs. I angrily made another pot of coffee. While I didn’t know what had happened to the briefcase, I knew one thing for certain: if Tony hadn’t been drunk, none of this would have happened.
After ten tense minutes, Remo emerged again. “She didn’t take it.”
“Bullshit! She’s lying!” Tony said.
Remo sighed and took the coffee I offered him. “She’d have no reason to take it. Your wife made sure that Rosa has everything she could possibly need. She has a big room, her own bathroom, new furniture, fresh linens, toiletries.”
“So what?”
“Tony, back at home that girl probably shares a mattress with her sisters or a grandmother, and a toilet with half the village. Bottom line? She’s never had it so good. Marisa, how much you paying her?”
“Five hundred pesos a month.”
Remo nodded. “Days off?”
“Sundays and Mondays.”
Remo smiled. “That’s almost double the going rate, with an extra day off included. That girl has a dream job here. There’s no way she’d risk losing it.” Remo put the coffee cup down and looked at Tony sincerely. “Rosa did not steal your briefcase.”
Tony’s anger finally deflated. Remo suggested speaking with the security guard, or calling the police, but the look Tony gave him made it perfectly clear that getting the authorities involved was not an option. Tony wandered back into the bedroom miserably. Then we heard him call out, “Holy shit! Look at this!”
Tony was peering out of the window, resting his elbows on the windowpane. “Look!” We peered past him and saw several muddy footprints on the narrow ledge. It was a long drop down. Somebody had risked his life to steal Tony’s briefcase. For a moment I felt vindicated. Then reality hit. Somebody had been in our room last night as we’d been sleeping. They could have murdered us in our beds. They could easily have gone into Justine’s room.
My blood ran cold. I left to get Rosa while Tony and Remo debated the logistics of how the intruder might have made it across the ledge. I knocked on Rosa’s door and apologized in halting Spanish. Then I took her downstairs to show her the footprints.
“Tony, this is a poor country,” Remo was saying. “There are a lot of desperate people here. It’s a small island. People notice when someone flashes a lot of money.”
Rosa leaned forward. Her eyes widened when she saw the footprints.
“You need to be more discreet,” Remo continued. “You spent thirteen thousand pesos on Dom Pérignon alone last night. That’s more money than most people here earn in a year.”
I frowned at Tony, and he squirmed uncomfortably. “It was a special occasion,” he said lamely.
“Special occasion or not, people were staring at you,” Remo said. “My boss gave me shit because your party was so loud and casually dressed. You guys were hammered when you left, so you wouldn’t have noticed if someone followed you home.”
I hoped Tony was getting the message. Maybe coming from Remo it would have more of an impact.
Tony was deep in thought. “Can you get me a couple of handguns?”
Remo looked as taken aback by this sudden change of direction as I was. “They’re expensive. Difficult to come by.”
Tony snorted derisively. “Right. You’re telling me those suits at Atlántico last night weren’t packing heat?”
“Most of our customers are armed,” Remo conceded. “Wealthy people here tend to carry weapons.”
“So can you get handguns, yes or no?”
Remo looked sheepish. “I guess cash won’t be a problem?”
“What do you think?”
“Are you still on tourist visas?”
“Uh-huh. I’m working on getting residency permits for us.”
Remo nodded thoughtfully. “Well, technically you’re not allowed to carry a weapon unless you’re a permanent resident … but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be worked out.”
“Good.” Tony slapped Remo on the back. “One for me and one for the little lady.”
AFTER THAT, TONY TOOK extra precautions to protect his family and improve the quality of our lives. He supplemented the security guard’s salary to motivate him to stay alert. He installed a safe in the walk-in closet, where we stashed my jewelry, our documents, and hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash. He bought a Mitsubishi truck for himself and a little blue Daihatsu for me. He had a five-hundred-gallon water tank installed on the roof of our apartment, and purchased a small generator. Theoretically, we would have a constant supply of water and electricity, no matter what.
Three months after Tony’s return, the offices moved to a villa on Calle Salvador Sturla, in a quiet neighborhood called Plaza Naco. Remo found the house for us. It was less expensive than the old office, and three times the size. The Big Office was installed in the dining room, the Small Office in the living room, and the Baby Office in a converted bedroom. A second bedroom was dedicated to horse bets, and the last bedroom became Tony’s office, complete with a safe the size of a fridge.
Tony promoted Gustavo to “corporate lawyer.” At first I was incensed, but then I realized that Tony had installed Gustavo in the servants’ quarters at the end of the property.
“I can keep an eye on him there,” Tony said, with a steely glint in his eye. “That crooked bastard won’t ever forget who the boss is again.”
The new offices also boasted cutting-edge technology. Tony had a satellite brought over from the United States, and Edwin Walker—through Codetel—hooked Tony up with one of the first cell phones in the country. Sacco, at Tony’s urging, invested in a company van, eliminating the need for the clerks to take taxis to the office. With Tony back in charge, the players lost the edge they’d gained, and soon the office was raking in more money than ever before. Tony’s next trip to L.A. to meet with his probation officer was a breeze, and soon the company’s future looked very bright indeed.
All of his industry had a downside, though. Tony would call just before leaving the office to check on the electricity. Our generator at home wasn’t strong enough to run the TV, and Tony liked to relax at the end of the day by flipping through channels with a cold beer. If I told him the power was out, more often than not he’d skip coming home in favor of joining the clerks for a late dinner. It always felt like a slap in the face when he stayed out, as if watching TV was more important to him than being with us.
These frequent evening absences inspired my return to the office. I figured that if we were working under at the same roof, then at least I’d see my husband for a few hours a day. Justine was still taking long naps in the afternoons, and I hated sitting around the apartment doing nothing. One day I simply showed up at the office, took a seat in an empty cubicle and asked Carmine to read me the line.
Tony took a rare day off on June 11, when the three of us headed to the beach to celebrate Justine’s first birthday. Remo had recommended the white sands and clear shallow waters of Boca Chica, as well as the excellent cuisine of Club St. Tropez. Once there, we were greeted by the owner, a lean, tanned, shirtless Frenchman called Jean-Michel who treated us like old friends the moment we mentioned Remo’s name. We were set up with lounge chairs and umbrellas and café con leche. It was a perfect day. Justine played in the sand, squealing with delight when the water splashed her feet. It was wonderful to spend some time together as a family. I hoped that once the business was more settled, we would share more days like this.
By noon, the beach was packed. Sunburnt tourists walked along the shoreline sipping tropical drinks, or frolicked in the turquoise-blue waters. Local vendors descended on the strip, flogging inflatable rafts, balls, and floats. Others sold swimwear or Haitian artwork—wood sculptures, chunks of raw amber, or coral jewelry. Young Dominican girls offered manicures and massages, local children begged for pesos, scantily clad prostitutes trawled for clients, and Haitian women in vibrant outfits harassed people to get their hair braided.
As I played with Justine in the sand, Tony remained under the umbrella. As the afternoon progressed he barely moved, content to pound beer after beer. As soon as he drained one, a waitress came with another. His drinking had been getting out of hand lately. Not wanting to start an argument, I tried the subtle approach. “I’m ordering a water. Do you want one too?”
“Babe,” he replied with an edge to his voice, “why don’t you let me enjoy my first day off in seven weeks, huh?”
I left it alone. Jean-Michel summoned us for lunch, and we dined alongside European tourists and local businessmen, hidden away in the relative cool of a canvas awning. Everybody was served the same exquisitely prepared fish, caught fresh and served in a delicate cream sauce with grilled vegetables. It was the best meal I’d had since arriving on the island, and I told Jean-Michel so. He gave a little shrug of the shoulders and replied, “I know.”
“So how do you know my good friend Remo?” he inquired next, sitting down next to us.
“From Atlántico.”
“Ah yes,” Jean-Michael sighed. “He is a manager, no? It is sad, seeing a natural talent like his wasted like that. He could have been a world-class chef like me,” he said, with typical Gallic modesty.
“Remo can cook?” I asked, astonished at this piece of news.
Jean-Michel snorted. “I hired Remo years ago, after my wife left me to return to France. I taught him everything I know. It is a tragedy that he is not using his God-given talent.”
“Why did he leave?” It seemed inconceivable to me that anyone would want to give up working in such a beautiful place to go work in the city.
Jean-Michael sat forward and gestured to a large, modern hotel at the far end of the beach. “I’ll tell you why. The owners of that monstrosity were determined to clean up this beach. They paid the local police to drive away us small-business owners. We were terrorized. Told we needed permits that did not exist. Our power was cut. Our men were beaten, our women raped. They even shot my dogs.” Jean-Michel’s voice cracked with emotion. He looked out to the sea, seemingly lost in his own thoughts for a moment. “Those … bastards. They even blew up part of the coral reef with dynamite. They destroy nature … all so they can build up the beach in front of their ugly hotel!”
Jean-Michel sat back and sighed. “Remo, he is not a fighter. It was too much for him, this war. So he left. Abandoned me and broke the hearts of the girls of Boca Chica.”
I laughed at this. Remo had never struck me as a ladies’ man.
“What’s so funny?” Tony asked. “Remo’s a good-looking kid. Why wouldn’t he have girls?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess … I’ve never seen him show any interest in women before.” I blushed when both Tony and Jean-Michel roared with laughter.
I’d made my assumption based on the fact that Remo had never looked at me like a woman. Their laughter indicated that my impression of Remo was far removed from reality.
Tony smirked. “The thing you don’t know about Remo is that he likes his meat dark.”
“Ah, oui … ” Jean-Michel said, before lapsing into a pitch-perfect imitation of Remo’s East Coast accent. “‘The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice.’”