Free Uptown Thief by Aya De León Page B

marginal, the vulnerable, and the so-called expendable. Everybody deserves health care. No matter what it is they choose to do with their bodies. Delia Borbón knows how hard it is out there. That’s why she’s here tonight. Because 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. And that’s where our clinic comes in. We insist on a real chance for the lives of our young women, and the occasional young man. Every cent we collect tonight will go into our endowment, ensuring that our services will be available for generations to come.”
    The audience erupted in applause.
    â€œThis is a magical night,” Marisol said. “Just a few minutes ago, I sealed the deal for a new health initiative in the Financial District.” Marisol searched the audience, and easily found the bright pink dress. “Our outreach van is going to be parked at Vixela’s every night to offer services to her fabulous girls.”
    Vixela’s mouth grimaced, but her forehead and eyes remained immobile.
    â€œPlease, everyone,” Marisol said, an open hand indicating Vixela’s location. “A round of applause for our own sensational Vixela!”
    Vixela smiled and waved.
    â€œAnd thank you all for your incredibly generous donations tonight,” Marisol said. “But not everyone is so pleased with how we protect and support women. We need security volunteers over the next few weeks. Male or female. We’ll take anyone who’s ready to defend the women who come to our clinic.”
    The DJ spun a quick sample of a current club song: “Don’t worry,” a tenor voice sang over thudding bass. “We gonna work it out, girl. Work it! Work it!”
    â€œHaaaaaayyy!” various voices in the audience chorused the next line of the song.
    Marisol laughed. “Thanks, DJ. I need to remember this is a party. And I think some of you might have come out to hear our special guest, right? Well, prepare to be inspired, and dáme un gran aplauso for Ms. Delia Borbón!”
    Borbón swept onto the stage in a flash of gold sequins and a cloud of her own signature perfume.
    * * *
    Later, Marisol counted the people in the book-signing line. With a donation profit margin of seventy-five dollars per book, the evening’s financials looked good.
    â€œMarisol!”
    She turned and looked closely at a thirty-something Latino man. He wore a well-cut suit and a wide smile on his square-jawed face.
    Was he an uptown hookup who’d managed to find her? He was just the type of guy she liked to help her blow off steam. And there was an intimacy with which he’d called her name. She felt a flush of heat.
    She never told those guys her name, didn’t even bother with a fake name. While she remembered all her former sex work clients, she immediately forgot the faces of the hookups, remembering only the notable physical quirks: a dick that curved left or a pair of bullet scars in a bicep.
    She blinked, trying to recall a shot of tequila, some flirtation on the way to the hotel, maybe the outline of his square jaw against the white sheet on a bed beneath her. He seemed so familiar, but the body was somehow wrong. And his expression was open-faced and beaming, instead of sly and smug.
    â€œI can’t believe it’s really you,” he said.
    He said it in perfect English. Definitely not an uptown hookup.
    â€œDo I know you?” Marisol asked.
    â€œI’m Raul,” he said, grinning. “You were in my sister’s class.”
    â€œRaulito?” She smiled. “Gladys’s baby brother? Dios mío! It’s been two decades.”
    She kissed him on the cheek and they embraced. Her body buzzed with the intensity of the hug. She remembered him as a skinny kid, but the chest she pressed against was broad and firmly muscled. He