Chapter 3
Dulce had also slept on the plane ride from New York to Cuba a year or so earlier.
Marisol Rivera had regarded Dulce in the seat on her left. Across the aisle to Marisol’s right were Tyesha, Kim and Jody. Those three women were Marisol’s closest friends and her partners in crime. Tyesha was the assistant director at the clinic she ran. But throughout the flight, Marisol kept her attention riveted on Dulce, who was like a twenty-year-younger version of herself. That was probably why Marisol worried incessantly about the girl and had never been able to maintain professional boundaries in their relationship. Transporting a client from her health clinic across international borders was inappropriate and possibly unethical. Maybe even illegal, but she had never let the law stop her.
Marisol took Dulce in when the girl was running from her pimp. Marisol had shot a thug who was trying to slit Dulce’s throat. And now, she’d bought Dulce a ticket to Cuba, when both the pimp and his brother were after her. In the line at JFK airport, Dulce had clung to Marisol’s arm, afraid that it was all too good to be real.
The way Marisol saw it, she had been meaning to visit her sister in Cuba, and Dulce had a grandmother in Cuba. And Cuba was a place where Dulce’s pimp and his associates wouldn’t be able to find her. A win for everyone, except Team Pimp.
Marisol had met the pimp Jerry Rios a few times, and he scared the shit out of her. She’d take Dulce to Siberia if it would get her away from a guy like him.
The first time she’d seen them together, he had towered over Dulce with his broad shoulders and thick frame, like a tyrannosaurus rex. Jerry had brought Dulce and a few of his other girls to Marisol’s annual gala. He stood around with an I’m watching you, bitch type stalker presence. He was angry that Marisol had sheltered Dulce after he’d beaten her up. Marisol was certain he had shown up to intimidate her.
He had stuffed himself into a shiny pinstripe suit and put on plenty of blingy jewelry. But when he got to the door of the fundraiser, he found out it was five hundred per person.
“Two thousand dollars?” he asked.
“For four people,” the girl said.
“I can do math,” Jerry said. “You fucking stuck up bitches think I can’t do math?”
Marisol heard his raised voice at the door and began walking toward him, her heart hammering. She had seen Dulce’s bruises and broken ribs and knew what he was capable of.
Marisol strutted up to them on stiletto heels, the emerald green dress clinging to her ample curves, except the bottom of the mermaid skirt, which swirled behind her.
“I’m not gonna pay two dollars to come up in this bitch,” Jerry said to the flustered girl at the registration table. “Let alone two thousand.”
“I’m sorry,” the girl said. “It’s five hundred per person. And I don’t have you on the pre-paid guest list.”
“You don’t think I got that kind of money?” Jerry dug into his pocket. “I got money. Enough to—”
“Jerry!” Marisol called over to him. “Jerry, I’m so glad you could make it!”
Graciousness was the last thing he would expect. He was here to intimidate her, or to pick a fight, but she wouldn’t indulge him. She advanced toward the table and picked up a clipboard. “Rivezzo . . . Riordan . . . Jerry Rios.” Marisol pulled a pencil from her upswept hairstyle.
“How you know my name?” he asked. “Why you all up in my fucking business?”
Marisol continued, as if he hadn’t even spoken. “You should be right here on the VIP list. Obviously, there’s been some mistake.” She turned to the staffer. “Honey, please make up VIP nametags for Jerry Rios and his friends.”
Dulce had on a bright red wig and a pair of shades, but Marisol had her attention trained on Jerry. He was the rattlesnake you needed to keep your eye on.
Jerry’s face held its usual scowl, but he stood, uncertain. Marisol made the tag herself. “Can I pin it on you, papi, or would you like to do the honors?”
He snatched it out of her hand and put it in his pocket.
“Jody!” Marisol called over to the tall blonde hostess from her crew. Jody stood nearly as tall as Jerry in her heels and glowered back at him.
Marisol smiled and took several flutes of champagne off Jody’s tray.
“Please,” Marisol said, giving them to Jerry and his entourage. “Be our guests.”
One of Jerry’s other girls picked up a pamphlet for the clinic and Jerry snatched it out of her hand.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Marisol said. “I need to go introduce our guest tonight, Delia Borbón.”
As Marisol walked away, she heard Dulce say: “Delia Borbón? I love her!”
“Shut up,” Jerry said. “We not staying that long.”
“There she is!” one of the other girls squealed. Beside the ballroom’s small stage, partially hidden behind a partition, Delia Borbón was waiting to go on.
She must have been at least fifty, but her shape was still an hourglass under the gold sequin dress.
She was there to talk about her memoir, From Red Light to Red Carpet, where she talked about her time as a stripper.
“Good evening everyone,” Marisol said into the microphone. “Buenas noches.”
Marisol saw Jerry and his entourage standing against the back wall. He glowered there, arms crossed over his massive chest.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” she said. “Because, in these tough economic times, you’re showing that New York cares for its own. That the gorgeous, the fabulous, and the prosperous give a damn about the marginal, the vulnerable, and the so-called expendable. Everybody deserves health care. Delia Borbón knows how hard it is out there. That’s why she’s here tonight. Like me, she remembers the tightrope young brown women have to walk. And she remembers all the sisters who don’t ever write the book, attend the gala event, or even live to tell the tale.”
At the back of the room, Marisol saw Dulce reach her finger and thumb under the sunglasses and wipe her eyes.
“And that’s where our clinic comes in,” Marisol went on. “Every cent we collect tonight will go into our endowment, ensuring that our services can save lives for generations to come.”
The audience erupted in applause.
Jerry barked something at the girls, and they all stopped clapping.
But when Jerry went back to glowering silently, Dulce took off the shades, revealing her black eye, and looked straight at Marisol.
Marisol held Dulce’s gaze as she spoke.
“Everyone deserves choices,” she said into the microphone. “Even sex workers.”
Jerry uncrossed his arms and said something to the three girls.
The two other women hustled to the door. But Dulce trailed behind, eyes locked with Marisol. Jerry gave Dulce a yank and she toppled off her heels, sprawling onto the floor. He swung his leg casually, kicking her.
As Dulce hurried to her feet and put her shades back on, Marisol was still speaking specifically to her.
“A woman who’s in a bad situation can always find help at our clinic,” Marisol said. “We’re not afraid to stand up to anyone who doesn’t like it.”
Dulce adjusted her skirt, and tottered after Jerry.
* * *
Marisol had cried when she delivered Dulce into the hands of her grandmother in Cuba. They all had cried. But for Marisol it was bittersweet: it was like the rescue she’d always dreamed of at that age, for a girl who reminded her so much of herself.