Uptown Thief by Aya De León Page A

condoms . . . every time.
Watch your drink.
Recognize the signs of an abusive relationship.

    In the background, a bass line thumped from the speakers of a wide-screen TV playing rap videos. In an armchair, one young woman nodded her head to the beat while gluing in a weave for a girl who sat between her knees. The game table held four domino players and a second circle of observers talking trash.
    â€œWho’s your friend, Marisol?” Nalissa asked, gesturing to Thug Woofer’s manager from the domino table.
    â€œBusiness associate,” Marisol said.
    â€œIf she ain’t your friend, I’m tryna be your friend,” Nalissa said.
    â€œI like that suit,” another girl said. “You can have more than one friend.”
    The manager blushed as Marisol walked him past the reception desk and a framed movie poster for Live Nude Girls, Unite! featuring three comic book hero–styled women, half-naked, with a “Strippers Union” picket sign and a fist in the air.
    Marisol opened the front door and shook the manager’s hand.
    She tilted her head subtly, indicating the young women in the lobby. “If you ever wanted to become a client yourself, we have packages in a wide range of price points.”
    â€œMe?” The manager’s blush deepened.
    â€œThink about it.” Marisol gave him a warm handshake. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
    Marisol closed the door as a young woman in a bright pink halter top slammed her final domino down on the table. “ Capicú , motherfuckers!” she crowed as the watchers erupted in a loud wail that rang throughout the lobby. The other players grudgingly tossed in their leftover tiles and the winner counted the points.
    As Marisol walked back across the lobby, Nalissa fell into step next to her. “I’m on your drop-in list next week,” she said. “But I can’t wait to tell you some of my business ideas—”
    â€œNalissa, you can’t charm me like a client,” Marisol said. “By looking sexy and eager. You wanna talk business, but you haven’t signed up for a single entrepreneurship class here at the clinic?”
    â€œI’m no good at school.”
    â€œThis ain’t school, mami . It’s community education.”
    â€œI’ll sign up right now,” Nalissa said, and headed to the reception desk.
    The sound of a police siren drew Marisol’s eye to the TV screen. A gold-toothed rapper threw money out of a limo as a cop chased him down the streets.
    Marisol grabbed the remote. “I’m putting the money management video back on.”
    The women’s voices rose in protest.
    â€œBut it’s Thug Woofer!” someone said.
    â€œI’d like to be the hoe in the back of his limo,” one girl at the domino table said.
    â€œNot if he was throwing out the money,” said Nalissa.
    â€œYou need to stop trying to be the hoe in the video and be the hoe making the video,” Marisol said. “And aren’t you all late for entrepreneurship training?”
    â€œOh shit!” one of the girls said, checking the time on her phone. They all grabbed purses and coats and rushed for the stairs. Nalissa fell in with the group.
    â€œSorry, Nalissa, this session has already started,” Marisol said.
    â€œPlease, I’m ready to learn,” she said. “And the next session is full.”
    â€œTell her I said to take you in on probation,” Marisol said. “If you’re not caught up by next week, you’re out.”
    â€œGracias!” Nalissa said, and disappeared into the stairwell.
    * * *
    Later that afternoon, Marisol was in the community room, teaching her seminar, “The Happy, Healthy Hoe.” January sunlight filtered into the room.
    â€œEverybody’s in this business for the same reason,” Marisol said to the thirty or so young women. “You’re broke, you got no real marketable skills,