Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “All kinds of men go in for ballet, Mama,” he said frantically, although he hated the words, no matter how true they were. He was one of “those kinds of men”—he was already what his mother feared ballet would turn him into—but to say so would be apocalyptic. He was still a minor, and there was a lot his parents could do that he’d be powerless to stop.

  “And that city!” She wasn’t even listening. “All sorts of devilry thrives there; all manner of ungodly lifestyles!” Again, it was crystal clear which particular lifestyle she had in mind, and sweat now rolled freely down Leif’s back; they’d been down this road before, but it had been a while since the argument came up with such clarity. “Pastor James says I ought to be worried about you falling into … that way, and I need you to reassure me, Leif. Are you experiencing sinful urges?”

  A panicked laugh bubbled up his throat. Of course it was Pastor James; his mother rarely saw what she didn’t want to, and his father barely even looked at him, but Pastor James had always eyed Leif with cold distaste. “You have nothing to worry about, Mama,” he babbled, reaching out for whatever might stop this line of questioning. “God wouldn’t have given me this gift if He didn’t mean for me to use it. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “But men do.” Mrs. Dalby sighed ominously. “Especially in a city with all manner of temptations laid out, and no parents to stand watch.”

  Leif had grown up in a town of two thousand people; there had been less than two hundred students in his entire high school, and all of them had known one another. His freshman year, one of the junior boys had been caught looking at “sinful pictures of men,” and had been sent “away.”

  Eager to sink her fingers into the scandal, Mrs. Dalby had made a casserole and taken Leif with her to see the boy’s anguished parents, and had spent the afternoon praying loudly for Lord Jesus to save their lost lamb. Leif had sat in a corner, burning all over and trying to disappear, filled with the desire to go upstairs and see the boy’s bedroom—to be in his space, even for just a minute, so as not to feel so horribly alone.

  “Mama, there’s sin everywhere.” He struggled to regain his footing. How was it that he could run from armed guards and do handsprings into a man’s face without losing his cool, but talking to his own mother undid him completely? “But there’s only one Marechal Academy, and the instructors are really strict about our behavior. You may not believe that this is my calling, but I do. I know that this is where I belong.” He bowed his head and said a quick prayer; he didn’t believe in the same version of God his parents did, but maybe there was a kinder one. “I need you to trust me.”

  His mother was silent for so long he was afraid she’d hung up on him, but at last she spoke. “I’m sorry, son, but I don’t agree with this. My mind is made up. If this is the path you insist on taking, you take it alone; your father and I will not be spending any more of our money on this dancing school of yours.”

  “That’s fine,” Leif blurted impulsively, before he considered what he was saying, “because I’ve applied for a scholarship, and if I get it, I won’t need any more support.” Unable to help himself, he added, “If God blesses me with this scholarship, Mama, you can’t deny that He wants me here.”

  His mother insisted that they pray together—long exhortations that Leif would see the light, that he wouldn’t fall into wickedness—and by the time she hung up, he felt ill. He couldn’t abandon the thing he loved, the thing he’d worked so hard for, or go back home and pretend to be someone he wasn’t. His parents would see through his act eventually, and then it would be his turn to be sent “away.” His hopes of freedom now depended on paying Marechal’s exorbitant tuition without any help.

  The Petrenko job couldn’t happen soon enough.

  14

  When the lights went out after the final number, the crowd was on its feet, cheering and catcalling the queens. As they took their bows, Axel winked and blew kisses to the cutest boys in the audience. ““Liesl is a flirt,” he’d explained reasonably, but Davon had given him a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. How come your name isn’t Liesl Von Flirt, then?”

  They all stayed in character until they got to the main dressing room, and then Axel collapsed into his makeup chair, peeling off the long, dark wig he wore for the closing act, and massaging his scalp. Davon sat down beside him, face shiny with sweat, and they grinned at each other in the mirror.

  “Good turnout tonight,” Axel commented, still riding his post-performance high.

  “Girl, we slayed our number together.” Davon grabbed a handful of makeup wipes and began deconstructing his face. “And that boy was drop-dead.”

  Just before the big finale, Liesl and Dior performed a duet of Brandy and Monica’s “The Boy is Mine,” pretending to fight over a guy from the audience. It always brought the house down, and gave them an excuse to fondle the best biceps in the club. Pulling off his earrings, Axel reached for the zipper of his dress. “He was watching me during the curtain call, so, sorry ’bout it, sis, but the boy is mine!”

  “In your dreams.” Davon laughed throatily as he transferred his wig to a dummy head on the counter. There was a knock at the door, and a man leaned into the room.

  “You ladies decent?” It was Roman, the manager, a scruffy thirtysomething with tattoos snaking up both arms. He was met with a chorus of welcomes, and pushed his way inside, setting a frosty cocktail glass in front of Axel. “The, uh … gentleman from the duet sends this with his compliments.”

  Giving Davon a smug look, Axel took a sip and felt his muscles begin to loosen. He got paid in cash, and as long as he didn’t order drinks for himself, no one at Ruby’s had a reason to check his ID; and even if Roman knew he wasn’t twenty-one, the guy was happy to look the other way for his performers. “I told you he was checking me out.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Davon rolled his eyes.

  Roman rested a hand on the back of Davon’s chair. “You guys were great tonight. Georgia would’ve been proud. How’s she doing?”

  “Hanging in there.” Davon kept his tone light, but there was no mistaking the sudden tension in the air. Teasing off his false lashes, the boy began scrubbing the makeup from his face, hiding his expression.

  “You tell her we’re thinking about her,” Roman continued, his gaze following the curve of Davon’s neck, the swell of the muscles in his upper arms. “The show’s not the same without Georgia Vermont.”

  “I’m sure she’d say the exact same thing.” Davon managed a laugh with the quip, but there was no humor in his eyes. Standing up from his chair, he offered his back to the club manager, a hasty change of subject. “Unzip me, okay?”

  Roman complied, and Davon shrugged out of the dress, quickly loosening his corset and setting it on the counter. Bare-chested, he made a show of sucking in a deep breath, muscles flexing across his flat stomach, and gave the man a relieved smile. “Thanks, baby. I was about to pass out.”

  He sat back down again, and for a moment Roman just stared and shuffled his feet, flustered. Finally, the man nodded. “No problem. Congratulations on the show.”

  As soon as he left the room, Axel nudged the highball across the counter and Davon snatched it up, swallowing half of the drink in one gulp.

  * * *

  “I think you and Roman would be cute together,” Axel argued as the Challenger cruised up PCH, salty air rushing through the open windows. Davon leveled him a murderous look, and Axel turned his palms to the sky. “What? I mean it. You’re eighteen now—it’s not like there’s anything wrong with it.”

  “The man is twice my age.”

  “That’s never bothered you before,” Axel pointed out with an innocent smile.

  “For a hookup, maybe, but we see Roman all the time! Can you imagine? What if he’s weird in bed?” Davon pursed his lips, nodding at his own suggestion. “He gives off a total weird-in-bed vibe, like he’d be into feet or diapers or something.”

  “What’s wrong with feet?”

  “I’m gonna do us both
a favor and pretend you never said that.” Davon shuddered delicately. “And anyway, I don’t shit where I eat.”

  “Anymore.”

  “Anymore,” the boy echoed, and they shared a look. They were silent for a bit as Davon steered the Dodge up the canyon road, winding past a couple of private gates—including Margo’s. Finally, he sighed. “You know I have to bring it up.”

  “No. You don’t.” Axel’s mood deflated, his hands tightening on the seat belt.

  “Quino is coming after Petrenko’s shit with us whether you’re part of the team or not, Ax. Cutting off your nose won’t change that, and at least if you stay on board you can watch his back. You know, since you’re so worried.”

  “Davon, seriously, fucking stop.” Axel shook his head. “How I deal with my brother is none of your business.”

  The other boy’s eyebrows rose in a high arch and he made a noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, excuse me, Miss Thing. Only, I wasn’t telling you how to handle your brother—from what I heard being shouted all up and down that alley, you’ve already been told; I was just offering some free advice, and wondering if you wanted to discuss that piping-hot bullshit you served up in the meeting tonight.”

  “Oh great, here we go.”

  “Yeah, here we go.” Davon stopped the Challenger at the gate in front of the Moreau home, the bars dented by people who couldn’t get close enough to damage Basil himself. “You hear ‘millions of dollars’ and you say, ‘No thanks.’ Okay, fine—makes no sense, but okay.” He punched the code into the keypad and the iron palings rattled as they slid aside. “But then you accuse Margo, your best friend, of pushing a personal agenda, when you’re only taking a stand in the first place so you can push a personal agenda.”

  “Davon.” Axel’s jaw was tight. “I told you to drop it. I don’t want to talk about this.”

  Davon eased up the drive, coming to a halt in the courtyard, where the dusty fountain rose up in the dark like a monument to a forgotten god. “I’m not talking about it,” he said ludicrously. “I’m just giving you a quick recap in case you forgot what happened.”

  In spite of himself, Axel started to laugh. “You are a real piece of work.”

  “Thank you.”

  Axel was silent for a moment, staring up at the villa. Lamps illuminated the front door, but all the windows were dark. “Do you think he booby-trapped the entrance? Maybe I’ll walk inside and a bucket of knives will fall on me?”

  “If you’re asking about your brother,” Davon mused dryly, “I’m guessing he’s at Margo’s tonight. I’m not gonna tell you that you need to think about what he said to you—because that would be talking about it, and I’m not doing that.”

  Axel gave a distant nod, still staring at the black windows fronting the mansion. The place was like Pompeii: suspended in time and full of ghosts. “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for Dad. None of it. It’s like…” He trailed off. “Every day I discover some new thing he managed to ruin. And while we’re getting spat on at the grocery store and fighting just to keep our heads above water, he’s chilling at a minimum-security fucking federal resort.” His tone was so acidic he was surprised it didn’t burn the dashboard. “He eats better than we do, he gets to see a doctor whenever he has an ouchie, and the other inmates kiss his ass.”

  “Do you ever visit him?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Nope.” Davon watched him in the shadows that filled the Challenger. “I mean, you’re mad as hell, and you’ve got every right to be. Maybe he needs to hear it. You obviously have a lot to say to him. It might do some good to let it out.”

  Axel shifted, rubbing his mouth. “Nothing I could tell him would make me feel half as good as pretending he doesn’t exist.”

  “Okay.” Davon backed off easily enough. “I’ve probably reached my limit for meddling, anyway. Even my radiant charms won’t save my ass forever.”

  Axel laughed again in spite of himself. “Your radiant charms? You conceited bitch.”

  “It’s not conceited if it’s true.” Davon grinned, eyes shining. He really was gorgeous, in or out of drag, and it was easy to see why Roman couldn’t leave him alone.

  “Do I need to remind you that Mr. Drop-Dead bought me that drink tonight?”

  “Because you were rubbing your ass all over him during the show!”

  “I told you a million times: Liesl is a flirt!”

  “Liesl is a ho,” Davon insisted, and then they both burst into giggles, smiling stupidly at each other. “We really did nail it tonight, though.”

  “Of course we did.” The air in the car was feeling warmer, and Axel knew he needed to get out before they did something foolish—again. “Nailing is one of the few things we never had trouble with.”

  Davon shook his head, expelling a breath. “That’s my cue to leave, isn’t it?”

  “Probably.” But neither of them moved. “I shouldn’t invite you in. That would be a bad idea.”

  “Your mom is home,” Davon agreed. “And we tried the dating thing once. It really didn’t work. If you asked me inside, I’d just say no.”

  “Luckily,” Axel noted, unlatching his seat belt, “your car has a lot of room.”

  They lunged forward over the center console, mouths tangling, breath hot as their hands sought familiar territory beneath each other’s clothes. As he wrestled Axel’s pants open, Davon grunted breathlessly, “This isn’t a thing, okay? We’re not gonna be friends with benefits. This is just a one-off.”

  “Like last time,” Axel agreed, lifting his hips to shove his jeans and underwear down to his knees. “And the time before that.”

  Davon climbed into his lap. “Just like that. Smart-ass.”

  15

  His father had been a mechanic, and so by the time he was twelve, Davon Stokes already knew how to take an engine block apart and put it back together—blindfolded. What he couldn’t do, what he was dying to master, was a smoky eye.

  He bought a tube of lipstick with his allowance, cheap and waxy and candy red; and late at night he’d touch the color to his lips, make a dress out of his blanket, and work the room like a catwalk. The internet was a wellspring of how-to videos, showing the finer points of contouring and blending, making your eyes pop, and he was dying to try. One day, when he was sure he was alone in the house, he finally snuck into his parents’ bedroom and stood at his mother’s vanity.

  Time passed as he struggled to pick the right colors, to execute the tricks he’d seen online, but it was way harder than it looked. He was so lost in concentration, trying to balance the soft, dark shadow against the pale-gold highlight, that he didn’t realize someone was behind him until the floor creaked. He spun around and froze, his father standing there, large as life and twice as frightening. Davon felt like he’d fallen out of a plane, the disaster total and irreversible, his face thick and hot with layers of incriminating cosmetics.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, something twisting at his father’s expression like a cat under a blanket, until the man spoke and Davon realized he’d been trying to suppress a laugh. “I think this is more your mother’s territory than mine.”

  He’d disappeared, and a minute later, Davon’s mother had swept into the room. Taking a seat beside him at the mirror, she grabbed for a handful of tissues. “Your eyes are all crooked, baby,” she’d said with a smile, swabbing at his face. “Let’s start you over.”

  Her version of the smoky eye wasn’t quite as dramatic as what he’d wanted, but way better than what he’d accomplished by himself. The next day, she’d bought him some makeup of his own, so he didn’t have to use hers—and his father had come home from work with shin guards and a padded helmet. “Life can be kinda hard on kids that are different,” he’d said, “but if you know how to throw a punch, being different is easier.”

  And so, the day after his first makeup lesson, he’d started learning how to fight. His dad’s words had proved pretty true, and Davon was aware of how
lucky he was.

  Until the day all his luck ran out.

  * * *

  Debussy was playing on the radio as Davon pulled off the freeway into Boyle Heights, just east of downtown. It wasn’t the worst of all neighborhoods in LA, but there was a greater than average chance the Challenger would mysteriously disappear if left on the street overnight, and so he paid an exorbitant monthly fee to keep it in a secured garage. It ate up money he didn’t have, but the Dodge was the one thing of any real value that he owned, and he’d put too much work into it to take the risk.

  Hauling his wig, makeup case, and three garment bags, he started walking—sticking to well-lit areas, since a guy alone at night with a bunch of shit in his arms was all but guaranteed to be mugged—and soon he was home: an ugly, single-story duplex of grungy stucco and peeling shingles squeezed cheek-by-jowl between more of the same.

  The metal gate gave out a telltale shriek when he pushed through into the scrubby yard, and he hadn’t made it five feet up the walk before an angular figure emerged from the front unit, leaning against a sagging overhang. “Hey, Black Beauty. Welcome home.”

  The raspy, taunting voice made Davon’s skin crawl, and the muscles in his shoulders tightened. Five words, and all of the night’s good feelings scattered like ashes in the wind. Warningly, he growled, “It’s late, and I’m too tired for your bullshit, Peck.”

  Peck came down from his stoop, though, and got directly in Davon’s way, leering up at the boy with a gap-toothed, unfriendly grin. “Aw, now, that ain’t being very neighborly.” Short and spare, he was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, but reckless living had aged him like beef jerky, his filthy tank top hanging off bony shoulders. “I spent all day looking after Georgia. Least you could do is say thank you.”

  “No, Peck. The least I can do is ignore your ass.” Davon’s fingers tightened around the hooks of the garment hangers, metal digging into his flesh; it hurt, but it was centering. He was so sick of Peck’s bridge-troll act, this confrontation every night, the scrawny little shit demanding a token of submission to his imagined power. “Why don’t you go to bed and let me do the same?”