Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “You boys did a great job.” Hours earlier, the first time they’d pulled into this parking lot, Davon searched among the dazed and day-drunk mall-walkers to find the most trustworthy of the bunch. These five had been the winners. With an approving nod, the boy in the blue wig produced a wad of paper money and handed it over. “Here’s what I promised you for standing guard—and here’s a little something extra.” With a flick of the wrist, Davon tossed over the keys to the Escalade as well, giving the vehicle one last wistful smile. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  Whooping and jostling one another, already arguing over who got to drive it first, the men charged for the Cadillac as Margo, Axel, Leif, and Joaquin made their way over to Davon. Pale blond hair sticking out all over in adorable disarray, Leif looked even more surprised at the unexpected bonus than the men did. “You’re seriously just giving them the Escalade? After all that?”

  “What the hell else am I gonna do with it?” Davon sighed, lifting his hands in a philosophical shrug. Within a few hours, the luxury SUV would be stripped to the axles, leaving one less thread by which to track them down. As the Cadillac lurched out of park and jolted forward, swerving through a carpet of broken glass and narrowly missing a metal trash barrel, he just hoped the five men didn’t get themselves killed. “Anyway. Job well done, blah blah blah. I don’t know about you all, but I need a drink and some beauty sleep.”

  Two helmets dangled from the handlebars of the Zero, and before Davon was even finished speaking, Axel had grabbed both and hurled one at Joaquin. The younger boy barely got his hands on it in time, shooting an injured look back at his brother. Slinging his leg over the seat of the bike, Axel snapped coldly, “Get on. We’re going home.”

  “No.” Margo snatched the helmet from Joaquin, jamming it over her own head and snapping the visor open. “I’m riding with you, Axel. You and I need to talk.”

  “No, I’m taking my brother.” Axel glared at her, his dark eyes hard enough to punch holes through steel; but in a battle of wills, they were equally matched.

  “Quino, you’re riding with Leif and Davon,” Margo decreed over her shoulder as she marched to the Zero, and to Davon she added perfunctorily, “If that’s cool with you?”

  “Oh sure.” Davon knew way better than to stick his head into this particular nest of fire ants. “I’m in no hurry. I can drink and sleep any time.”

  Truth be told, he was happy to have an excuse to stay out just a little bit later, to avoid what most likely awaited him at home—and Margo knew it.

  “This is stupid,” Axel insisted hotly as the girl jumped onto the bike behind him, zipping up her leather jacket and wrapping her arms around his waist. “Joaquin and I live together, remember? We’re going to the exact same place!”

  “And I live five minutes from the two of you, so Davon would have to drive all the way to our neck of the woods anyway.” She waved at the other boys, shooing them toward the Challenger. “Now, put your helmet on, take some deep breaths, and let’s go.”

  His face darkening like a storm cloud, Axel did as he was told, if only because a protracted argument with Margo generally resulted in no winner at all. The Zero sparked to life and surged forward, making a graceful curve before speeding into the darkness and disappearing beyond the mall.

  Joaquin looked relieved, running a hand through the dark, sweaty hair that tumbled across his forehead. Still, he grunted, “He’s gonna kill me, isn’t he?”

  “Nah, you’re good,” Davon promised, unlocking the Challenger and climbing behind the wheel. “Those two are going to murder each other long before they make it back home.”

  Firing up the engine, he let the two boys pile in, and then he cruised off after Axel and Margo, waving to the homeless men doing donuts in the Escalade. Moonlight flashed on the burgundy polish of his acrylic nails, and Haydn’s fourth violin concerto swelled from the speakers of the car, silvery ribbons of sound threading through the moist, cool air that filled the night.

  Sometimes life was good, and sometimes it was crap, and sometimes it was both at once.

  7

  His thighs hugging the Zero, the electric lights of the city blazing across the black leather of his riding gloves, Axel checked his mirrors and squeezed a little more speed out of the engine. They’d gone the long way around, taking surface streets, sticking judiciously to the speed limit. Four police cruisers streamed by as they passed the copper-green tower rising up above the Wiltern Theatre, and the boy kept his head down.

  Even if he did want to jiggle the motorcycle until Margo lost her grip and went flying off through the window of a passing truck.

  The minute she’d said they needed to talk, he’d forgotten every single word of the diatribe he’d been reciting for Davon all night long, and he was grateful for the helmets and noise that forestalled yet another one-sided conversation. He spent the ride trying to reorganize his thoughts, but it was impossible to rehearse his side of the argument without succumbing to a murderous rage over the fact that her arms were wrapped around him.

  They’d done this so many times, these dusky tours of the city—not always a getaway, but always an escape—getting lost in order to find themselves. He’d text Margo one line (I’m losing it), and she’d write back immediately (meet at the gate in 10); she’d have a bottle of wine from her dad’s cellar or a flask of scotch, a bag of fireworks, graphic novels, or junk food, and they’d just go until they found somewhere to stop and make the world vanish.

  He wasn’t even sure he could safely articulate how betrayed he felt that she had recruited his little brother for this. Quino wasn’t like them—and he didn’t have to be. Axel thought Margo had understood that. He’d thought she was one of the few people in the world who had any idea how shitty his life had actually become.

  The sun was rising, rust-orange light inflaming the horizon as the Zero finally neared the I-10, and a drumbeat of anxiety throbbed in Axel’s gut. He hated coming home at dawn, hated the questions he always expected but was never asked. He hated that instead of making him feel young and alive, staying out all night just made him feel tired and sad. His heart sank slowly as they hummed through Santa Monica and onto the Pacific Coast Highway, winding north between palm trees and beachfront homes, while whitecaps rose and fell as the ocean drove hard against the beach.

  Ruddy fingerprints bruised the sky above them when he steered the bike up into the twisting canyons of Malibu, coming to a stop in front of a grand, wrought-iron gate. Bang in the center of it was an ornate and deliberately recognizable insignia: a bold letter M, set within a circle and bisected by a lightning bolt. Axel didn’t bother to turn off the Zero; he just waited for Margo to dismount and go.

  She didn’t. And after ten minutes of sitting there while she messed around on her cell phone, he couldn’t take it anymore. Jerking off his helmet, he spun around with a glare. “I cannot believe you told Quino he could be a part of this!”

  “I know you’re upset,” she began in a maddeningly docile tone, as if he were being unreasonable.

  “Of course I’m upset! You sent my kid brother to rob a museum!” Was she delusional? “They had guns, Margo. They were shooting actual bullets at him!”

  “They were shooting bullets at me,” she corrected coolly, “and I wasn’t any happier about it than you are. But none of us would’ve faced any bullets at all if you’d fired the hook when I told you the first time.”

  “Don’t you dare try to turn this around on me.” Axel shook his head in disbelief. “I cannot believe you won’t even apologize for—”

  “Axel,” Margo interrupted sharply, gray eyes blazing, suddenly all business from the top down. “If you want to chew me out, relax—you’re about to get your chance. But first it’s my turn.” She ripped off her gloves, lips pressed into a flat line. “I don’t care how pissed you are at me, you don’t refuse to perform when the clock is ticking. You put all of us in danger, you risked the whole job, and you did it just to have the last word in an argumen
t. Do it again, and you’re out.”

  Axel nodded along sarcastically. “That’s a great speech, Margo, and I’d feel super guilty right now if we weren’t talking about the fact that you put my brother in play and didn’t tell me until you knew it was too late for me to do anything but lockstep.” A gull swooped overhead, wheeling out to sea. “You manipulated me. You took my choices away so you could get what you want, and that’s fucked up.”

  “Okay.” Margo nodded carefully, running her fingers over the stitching on the seat. “I hear what you’re saying, and you’re right about that much. I did it because I wanted you to give Quino a chance, and I knew you wouldn’t unless I forced your hand. Maybe it wasn’t the most honorable move.” She met his eye. “But look at what he did, Axel. Out of all of us, he had the hardest job, and he nailed it. He’s good, and we wouldn’t have pulled it off—”

  “Don’t do that!” Axel fumed, thrusting an accusing finger at her. “Don’t ends-justify-the-means me!” And, just like that, tears pricked hotly at the corners of his eyes, and he struggled to keep his throat from closing. “How could you, Margo? Joaquin isn’t … he’s not a part of this, and I don’t want him to be. He should be at home, asleep. He should be having a normal life.”

  “But he doesn’t, Axel,” she said softly, and her face took on that hideously mournful look she got whenever she was about to invoke his father’s bullshit. “And it’s not something you can give him, anyway. It’s not your responsibility to—”

  “Don’t tell me about my responsibilities.”

  And then there it was: “You’re not your dad.”

  “I know I’m not my dad, okay?” He snarled. “As far as I’m concerned, Basil Moreau is dead. That bastard died a fucking year and a half ago, and it would be awesome if people would just stop saying his name around me already.” His pulse throbbed in his neck, and he felt deranged. “He has fucked up literally everything he’s ever touched, and until tonight, I was praying that didn’t include my baby brother.”

  A year and a half. It was hard to believe it had been that long since the feds had come rolling up, an armada of shiny black cars appearing without warning in front of their Spanish-style villa, to arrest Axel’s financier father on a shockingly long list of criminal acts. Securities fraud, mail fraud, wire fraud, tax fraud, and money laundering had been the juiciest; but as the investigation exploded open in the national media, plenty of lesser charges had poured out as well. The victims of Basil’s breathtaking scam could have doubled as a Who’s Who of their close-knit Malibu community, and the Moreaus had become pariahs overnight.

  Their front gate was vandalized repeatedly, garbage and feces thrown into their yard, and for weeks they didn’t feel safe leaving the house at all. School was no better. Axel and Joaquin were harassed in the halls, their lockers defaced, and their teachers—wary of the politics afoot—saw nothing. Through it all, the only person to stay by Axel’s side, the only friend not to turn on him, was Margo. It was a debt he couldn’t possibly repay.

  When it first happened, it had felt like an extinction-level event; but time marched on, and somehow they were still here, still stepping around a jagged crater in the middle of their lives a year and a half later. Nothing would ever again be the way it once was, and age had numbed their wounds rather than healed them. Basil Moreau was alive and well in a federal penitentiary, while his family died for his sins every single day.

  “Axel.” Margo made a move as if to touch him, but he inched back subtly, and she got the message, turning her gaze to the ocean. “Part of why I didn’t tell you Quino was joining us is because he asked me not to. He knew you’d find a way to shut him down, and he wanted this. He wants this.” She faced him again, eyes searching. “You need to talk to him. He didn’t come to me because he thinks stealing shit is ‘cool.’ He’s not trying to compete with you, or impress you, or spite you. He made a case to me, and it was a good one, and I thought he’d earned a chance. Maybe he’s earned one from you, too.”

  Axel shook his head again, trying to make it all go away. He didn’t want to hear Margo’s advice, and so he decided not to. Putting his helmet back on, he flipped up his visor. “I should get home and check on my mom. Apparently she’s been alone all night long.”

  With an unhappy sigh, Margo climbed off the Zero, the oversized satchel still strapped to her back and the small duffel hanging from one shoulder. Axel kicked speed into the bike immediately, sending up loose stones behind him, drowning out Margo’s parting words. “Please, just think about it!”

  And then he was buzzing his way higher up the canyon, back toward home.

  Or what was left of it.

  * * *

  Her concern for Axel Moreau was not all that weighed heavy on Margo’s shoulders as she punched her code into the keypad and watched the gate swing open, the thunderbolt M making way for her to enter. The satchel was like an anvil on her back as she trudged up the short drive, curving through a spiky privacy hedge, the exhilaration of the daring theft finally wearing off.

  Before her rose a vast, two-story mansion, a “luxury modern” construction of metal, stucco, and plate glass. The thunderbolt M repeated itself at the bottom of a reflecting pool in the forecourt, and recessed lights glowed outside the front door, letting her know that someone had wanted her to feel welcome when she returned.

  Even before deactivating the alarm, Margo dropped her bags to the floor of the austere foyer. The safest place for them would be her bedroom, but she needed something to eat and a moment to breathe first. Crossing into a spacious living room, where glass doors looked out onto a shimmering infinity pool and the ocean stretching behind it, she felt as light as if she were zip-lining again. The ocean was lighting up, lavender and gold kissing the coastline, and for a moment Margo absorbed the tranquil view of dark green hills tumbling to the sea.

  In the kitchen, where black stone counters and stainless steel appliances ringed a central island, she made a beeline for the refrigerator. Ripping open a plastic tub of sesame noodles, she forked every last glistening ounce into her mouth as fast as she could, still cold. It wasn’t until her lips were greasy and her stomach full that she finally noticed what rested on the counter in front of her.

  A plain rocks glass lined with an amber residue that smelled of smoke, it weighed down a brief note: Found in his room. THIRD TIME THIS WEEK! It was unsigned, but Margo knew immediately who’d written it. Only one person would bother. Frustrated and weary, she put the glass in the dishwasher, retrieved her bags from the foyer, and headed upstairs.

  Her private suite occupied one end of the second-floor hallway on the west side of the house; at the other end was her father’s. Once upon a time, so long ago her memories of it were now hazy and soft around the edges, he’d shared the room with her mother; but following the couple’s divorce when Margo was five, a vengeful and acrimonious split that fueled millions of gossip magazines from coast to coast, Mrs. Manning had left not just Malibu but the entire continent of North America. Now living in Europe, the woman made it clear she would gladly move to Jupiter if it meant getting that much farther away from her hated ex-husband. For his part, Harland Manning never remarried, and for twelve years he and his daughter had occupied the mansion alone together.

  When she reached the top of the steps, Margo froze at the sight of a telltale electric glow beneath the ornately carved door to the master bedroom. Her dad’s light was still on? A million possibilities galloped through her head, most of them bad—but before she could act, a querulous voice called, “Margo? Is that you?”

  Caught, she blinked, unsure if she was relieved or afraid. “D-dad?”

  “Are you just getting home?” The voice was weak, muffled by the door, but still radiated outrage and disappointment.

  “Just a minute!” Margo hustled the bags into her room, scrubbed off the last vestiges of her drag makeup, and returned to her father’s door. Heart beating with a familiar and reflexive fear, she knocked and then let herself inside.
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  Propped up against a padded headboard, dead center in a massive, four-poster bed, sat Harland Manning. Light from a bedside lamp played sideways across his face, casting dramatic shadows over his sunken cheeks, and heavy curtains blacked out the windows. The effect was powerful, her father in a spotlight as though onstage, the theatrics making up for the strength he no longer possessed.

  “You’re up early,” she began, in as neutral a tone as she could.

  “I might say the same of you,” her father snapped, his voice tremulous but full of disdain. “I’d ask where you’ve been, but I’m certain I won’t like the answer.”

  “I was out with Axel.” Margo hated how thin her voice sounded, how defensive; it was astounding how much of her spirit the man was capable of ripping out with just a few words and a cruel tone.

  “I don’t understand why you insist on consorting with that family.” Harland made a dismissive gesture. “Do you have any idea how it reflects on you, rubbing elbows with the son of the most notorious criminal in America? How it reflects on me?” He shook his head. “Or maybe that’s the point. Maybe this is just one more way for you to show your contempt for everything I stand for.”

  “Not everything is about you,” Margo retorted, feeling just a little bit of herself return. There was silence as Harland calculated how much energy he had for a fight, and seemed to come up short. With an aggrieved sigh, he subsided into the cushions behind him, withering just a little more right before her eyes. Clearing her throat, Margo ventured, “Irina left a note. She says you’ve been drinking again.”

  “That meddling Russian spy!” His face colored a little. “I ought to fire her.”