Free Uptown Thief by Aya De León Page A

tonight would go directly into an endowment account and couldn’t be used for current expenses.
    All of Loisaida Talent Agency’s “models” were hostesses for the evening. They padded around prepping the tables and champagne glasses in low-cut surplice neck blouses and snug slacks. When the event began, they slipped on high-heeled pumps and circulated trays with flutes of champagne and canapés, while they collected donations.
    * * *
    By 8 p.m. the room was filled with enthusiastic patrons, and the sounds of a jazz trio.
    â€œMarisol,” her assistant Serena’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “The deputy mayor just walked in.”
    Serena was a petite, fine-boned girl, with brown flyaway hair and intense hazel eyes—a former clinic client. Serena was transgender, and had been thrown out of the house as a teen by her Greek immigrant parents.
    There was still a line at the registration table. At $500 per person, they would have at least a quarter million walking in the door. With any luck, they would raise half a million for their endowment.
    The coup for the evening was having celebrity Delia Borbón signing exclusive preview copies of her rags-to-riches autobiography. Borbón’s memoir promised to include her exploits as a stripper before her movie career and marriage to a New York congressman.
    * * *
    â€œMarisol,” Serena’s voice warned through her earpiece. “The blonde has arrived and is headed your way.”
    Marisol spotted a woman in a pink dress that barely covered her huge breasts. She hung on the arm of a strapping young man.
    â€œVixela!” Marisol bit back her rage at the strip club owner.
    From a distance, Vixela looked like a pinup girl from some bygone era. Even in a room filled with glamorous women, she turned heads as she strutted over to embrace Marisol.
    Up close, Vixela’s seams showed. The arms embracing Marisol were tense and ropy. The breasts pressing against her were stiff, synthetic. Vixela’s face had a taut, pulled look. She air-kissed Marisol with overplumped lips.
    Vixela must be about the same age as Eva—early sixties. Yet Eva wore her wrinkles and her love handles with grace. And wasn’t that handsome Bronx Alderman always asking Eva out? He had to be fifteen years her junior. Eva had a face that made you want to get closer, get to know her.
    â€œYou belong up on a pole,” Marisol said. “I bet you could show these young girls how it’s done.”
    â€œSometimes I have to hold myself back,” Vixela said.
    â€œThe customers’ loss,” Marisol said. “Will you walk with me over to the stage?”
    â€œOf course, darling,” Vixela said.
    â€œI need your help,” Marisol said. “I thought my staff was lying when they said they had problems parking behind your club. You know how lazy these girls can be. So I followed them in a cab last night. I was surprised that your security guys stopped them from parking in the alley.”
    â€œMust be a misunderstanding,” Vixela said. “You can park right in front, just don’t block the loading zone.”
    â€œI knew it,” Marisol said. “Of course you would want the girls to get checked out if they needed it.”
    â€œI’m all about helping my girls,” Vixela said.
    Marisol took a glass of champagne from a hostess and handed it to Vixela. “Don’t be surprised if I give you a little shout-out during my intro.”
    She unhooked the velvet rope, and gathered up the hem of her dress as she stepped up onto the platform.
    â€œGood evening, everyone,” Marisol said into the microphone. “Buenas noches.”
    Serena cued the jazz trio to end the song, and the clamor in the room dropped.
    â€œIn these tough economic times, it’s good to see that New York cares for its own,” Marisol began. “That the gorgeous, the fabulous, and the prosperous give a damn about the