Uptown Thief by Aya De León

Carolina who needed adult entertainment at an engagement party. The idea of matrimony didn’t match Woof’s bad boy image. He and his entourage had cut a path up to New York, leaving a trail of DUIs and trashed hotel rooms. Thug Woofer had moved into the penthouse of a midtown apartment building to record his next album.
    Marisol tilted back and studied her visitor. People like him were the reason she’d had the office done in mahogany and black leather. Marisol could have sat in a folding chair at a card table with piles of paper all around her and an old laptop. But for clients like this one, she’d hustled up designer leather furniture, wood panel walls, and a massive wooden desk. Southern exposure brought warm indirect light into the room and sustained several plants. Marisol loved green things at work—plants and money.
    She dressed to match the office. Dark suits and tailored blouses.
    She frowned down at her notes from their phone call.
    â€œThug Woofer is getting engaged?” Marisol asked.
    â€œHis brother,” the manager said. “This is just a small party. Woof, his brother, and cousin. The bachelor party will be much bigger—at least twenty girls. My friend with the Yankees said you could handle it no problem.”
    â€œNo problem,” Marisol said. “But we have rules. You and I agree ahead of time on the sex acts. I’ve seen your boy’s videos. No one’s gonna be putting any of my girls in the trunk of a car. There are a million assholes in this city who cater to any twisted motherfucker. Go find one of them.”
    â€œSo if my guys want something freaky, your girls are out the door?”
    â€œAnything freaky we don’t agree to ahead of time,” Marisol said.
    â€œWhat about spontaneity?”
    â€œWhen a contractor remodels your bathroom, you don’t ask him to cook you lasagna. These girls are professionals. We negotiate up front on price, terms, and services. No surprises.”
    â€œThis is bullshit. I can get more bang for my buck at Vixela’s.”
    â€œVixela’s strip club downtown?” Marisol scoffed. “You want your guys to get caught screwing minors?”
    â€œWe’re buying hookers,” the manager said. “Not exactly legal, anyway. I want my guys satisfied. This isn’t a charity event.”
    â€œNo?” Marisol asked, raising an eyebrow. “Then your Yankees guy didn’t mention our biggest perk?”
    â€œI don’t see any perks,” the manager said. “Sounds like three cranky-ass girls give my guys some listless hand jobs.”
    â€œNo, honey,” Marisol said. “Three lingerie-model types. Gorgeous and enthusiastic, who will strip, provide private entertainment for each of the three guys, and act like their dream in life is to perform whatever acts we agree upon in this office. Ten thousand dollars for the package. And—” Marisol paused and leaned back in her chair. “Every penny will be tax-deductible.”
    â€œWhat?” The manager blinked behind his glasses.
    â€œYour credit card statement will include a donation to the María de la Vega Health Clinic. Our workers will be thanking your guys personally for supporting women’s health care.”
    â€œYou’re fucking kidding me.” The manager’s mouth fell into an open grin.
    â€œYou want the write-off, you keep your guys in line.” She showed him where to sign the donation paperwork.
    â€œAnd our gala fund-raiser is tomorrow.” She handed him an invitation. “In case you or Thug Woofer would like to join us.”
    * * *
    Marisol liked potential clients to see what the funds were supporting, so she walked the manager out through the clinic lobby. More than a dozen young women, mostly black and Latina, lounged around on couches. On the walls behind them, images of attractive, confident young women from their demographic encouraged them to:

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