Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “Afraid I can’t,” Peck said unpleasantly, grabbing Davon’s arm as the boy tried to shove past, the skeletal fingers at least as sharp as the metal coat hangers.

  Carefully and slowly, Davon stated, “I think it would be a good idea for you to keep your fucking hands off me.”

  Peck exaggerated his compliance, not in the least bit scared. Davon could have force-fed him his own ass if he wanted, a truth of which they were both aware; but other factors were at play, and they made Peck untouchable. His bloodshot eyes glittering in the moonlight, the hatchet-faced miscreant lit a cigarette and blew smoke in Davon’s face. “Georgia owes me money. Which means you owe me money.”

  “I don’t owe you shit,” Davon snarled, losing the tenuous grip he had remaining on his temper. “Are you fucking kidding right now? You think you can come to me for money?” He tossed the garment bags and makeup case to the ground—although not the wig; not everybody was as careless with their hairpieces as Margo—and squared his shoulders. “You know, why don’t you try to take it from me? I could use a good laugh.”

  “I sold her fifteen pills, and she told me you had the green.” Peck gritted his discolored teeth, his narrow features stretched with menace. “That’s a full grand, and I ain’t fixing to be patient about it.”

  “You didn’t sell them, then,” Davon corrected him. “You gave them to her on credit, dumbfuck, and if you’re too stupid to recognize a bad risk, it’s not my problem.”

  “She owes me, you little cocksucker.” The cords in the guy’s neck stood out like the rigging on a sailboat, and he jabbed a finger into Davon’s chest. “I know you got money. Maybe you can hide it from her, but I know you got it just the same—and if you think she’s in a bad way now, you should see what’ll happen if you don’t deliver.”

  Anger poured through Davon like rocket fuel, his vision going red and hazy as he fought against the countdown to blastoff. “I ought to beat your sorry ass right now.”

  “I think it would be a good idea for you to keep your fucking hands off me.” Amusement danced in Peck’s beady eyes as he parroted back Davon’s own words. “My buddies can be here in eight minutes. Remember?”

  Eight minutes. That was exactly how long it had taken the last time, when three guys with baseball bats had turned up to put Davon in the ER after he had punched out two of Peck’s rotting teeth. It was still a tempting thought; the satisfaction of pounding the shit out of his drug-dealing neighbor was almost worth another trip to the hospital, and Davon was getting better and better at fighting armed dudes bare-handed.

  But there was Georgia. And Davon couldn’t protect them both. Fuming, but without a word, he scooped up his things and shoved past Peck, storming for the door to the rear unit. Behind him, his neighbor chuckled mirthlessly.

  As Davon struggled with the key in the lock, his hands unsteadied by rage, Peck called out, “I want that money by tomorrow. Or my friends are coming over anyway.”

  The apartment smelled of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and spilled chardonnay when Davon finally managed to get inside, and on the TV a woman with shiny hair read a news report about the ongoing civil war in Malawi. The air was thick as soup, a plastic oscillating fan stirring it around like a wooden spoon, but it was heavenly anyway. Getting away from Peck always felt like breaking the surface after a deep-sea dive. The relief didn’t last long, though; the weight of the cheerless apartment pressed down, heavy as the lid on a coffin.

  The plaster walls were cracked from past earthquakes, the paint discolored by a dozen years of smoke from candles lit “for the romantic effect,” and the roach problem was best ignored. And then there was Davon’s roommate. Flopped sideways across the ancient sofa cushions, snoring loudly and decked out in a marabou-trimmed peignoir, was Georgia Vermont—his drag mother and unofficial guardian.

  On her legal documents, she was Stanley Darga; but, in or out of drag, nobody had ever called her anything but Georgia. The founder of Tuck/Marry/Kill, she’d been the first to see Davon’s potential, the one who helped him elevate Dior Galore from an experiment to a star, and she’d saved him when he needed saving the most.

  He’d been fourteen the night his father didn’t make it back from the auto body center—the night the police turned up instead, with an incredible story of a stray bullet that had traveled three blocks to sever Mr. Stokes’s femoral artery while he was walking home. Davon’s mother Renata had collapsed, undone by the tragedy, keening and wailing herself into nonexistence; that first wave of grief hit so hard it scooped her out entirely, taking everything back to the sea as it retreated, leaving her body a hollow shell.

  At first, Davon couldn’t understand what had happened. His father was gone, and his mother was there but blank, a computer with a wiped hard drive. She could be induced to eat, and guided to stand or sit, but was otherwise unresponsive. His Aunt Marceline, afflicted with a particular strain of hard religion, declared it her duty to take care of Renata—but that duty did not extend to her effeminate nephew, whose habits were too perverse to find a place under her roof.

  Davon passed his fifteenth birthday on the street.

  And then: Georgia. Resourceful enough to survive, Davon grabbed his happiness in fragments outside of clubs after drag shows had just let out, watching the queens like a hunter in a blind, studying the way they moved and dressed. He learned that there were men willing to pay for an hour or an evening of his company, and he took that money to buy food and build his drag armory; he acquired better wigs, better makeup, dressed to the hilt, and plagued the queens of Tuck/Marry/Kill until they finally noticed him.

  They read him for his flat hair and cheap clothes, but the attention was progress; and when Georgia grabbed his chin and tilted it to the light, he knew his moment had arrived. Her words fuzzy with alcohol, the queen had declared, “Your contouring is shit, and I’ve seen sexier dresses on the sister-wives of a cult leader, but your eyes are amazing. Where do you live, kid?”

  The answer was anywhere, and Georgia had offered him a bed for the night. He’d expected the usual strings, but she’d given him a blanket, a pillow, and a hot meal—and some privacy. One night turned into a week, which turned into a month, which turned into the new normal; Georgia took him on as a drag daughter, put him in Tuck/Marry/Kill, and even helped him find part-time work with a mechanic in the neighborhood. And, in the beginning, it had been easy to overlook her casual indulgences with pills and wine.

  “Georgia?” Davon hunkered down next to the couch, giving the drag queen’s cheeks a gentle slap. “Come on, Mama, you need to wake up.” It was weird, calling a fifty-year-old white man in a crooked wig “Mama”; but somehow it wasn’t weird at all—which … was also sort of weird. “It’s late and I’m tired, and you’re in my bed.”

  “D? Izzat you?” Georgia’s eyes slid open on different schedules, glazed and dreamy.

  “Yes, it’s me. How much have you had?”

  “Dunno.” Georgia let out a sigh that turned into a snort, and her eyes slid shut again. “Didn’t have anything. You know I stopped.”

  Davon would’ve been furious at the lie if it wasn’t so inexpressibly sad. “Peck said he gave you some more pills today.”

  “Peck’s a dickshitter,” Georgia slurred crossly. “A shitterdick. A ship-shitter. Fuck, what’s that word?”

  “An asshole.”

  Georgia waved a heavy, bejeweled hand in the air as if to say, Just so. “You can’t trust a thing that lowlife says, D. You know that.”

  “I hate the slimy little bastard like a hemorrhoid, but he doesn’t kid about people owing him money.” Davon paused for just a second. “And, fact is, Georgia … you’ve been telling more lies to me lately than Peck has.”

  Georgia’s eyes opened again and she made an ugly face, heaving herself into a sitting position. “Fuck izzat supposed to mean? Who dare you think you are?”

  “‘I didn’t have anything,’” Davon repeated back to her. “Mama, you’re stoned as fuck right now, and you spilled
white wine all over the coffee table.”

  “What?” Georgia’s eyes widened in an almost comical expression of alarm, and she peered around him at the mess. “Ahhh, shit. Shit shit shit.”

  “Yeah, shit shit shit. How much have you had?” He asked again, and this time she inched an index finger into the air. Davon’s eyes narrowed. “One? You had one pill. Come on, Georgia.”

  “S’true. These ones are different than the others. Better.”

  “Stronger, you mean.”

  “Same thing.” She slumped forward, eyes drifting closed, and then jerked upright again. “Anyway, you know I need it, on account of my hip.”

  “Right, sure.” Davon nodded wearily. In Georgia’s defense, thirty-five years of performing in heels had done a number on some of her joints. But still. “The last doctor you saw said he didn’t think more painkillers were a good idea.”

  “Screw that shit-for-brains.” Georgia swatted his memory out of the air. “The hell did he know, anyway? I’m the one walkin’ on this motherfucker, not him. I’m the one’s gotta live with it. I’m the one…”

  She trailed off, and Davon sighed as patiently as he knew how. “You’re the one, all right. Come on—let’s get you to bed.”

  He stood to help her off the sofa, and Georgia seemed to become aware of her surroundings for the first time. Gazing up at him, concern flickered in her hazy eyes. “Wait, what time is it? It’s Saturday, right? We got a show!”

  “Show’s over, Mama.” He held out his hand for her. “It went great, and everyone asked about you. You’re a celebrity.”

  “Of course I’m a celebrity!” Georgia practically shouted. “I founded that fucking act! What do you mean, ‘It’s over’? Where was I?”

  “Here, I’m guessing. You never showed up at the club, and you didn’t answer your phone. As usual.”

  “That’s my act!” Georgia struggled to her feet, swaying dangerously on the heels she shouldn’t have been wearing “on account of her hip.” “You shoulda waited for me! Somebody shoulda come get me! How could you … how could—”

  “Look at yourself, Georgia!” Davon finally snapped. “Look how fucked up you are—you’re missing an eyelash, your wig’s on sideways, and you can barely keep your eyes open!” The apartment was smaller than ever, the newscaster shouting about child soldiers and rebel compounds, and it was all too much. “You’re in no shape to perform. You haven’t been for months.”

  At that, his drag mother burst into tears—loud, racking sobs—and immediately Davon felt like shit. Sobbing into her hands, Georgia blubbered, “I’m sorry … I’m so sorry … I’m trying.” She hiccupped. “You got no idea how hard I’m trying, Davon.”

  “I do. I do know.” He put his arm around her shoulders, on the verge of tears himself.

  “You don’t know how hard it is! You don’t know what I’m dealing with!”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” It was true. Of the many battles Davon had faced, addiction wasn’t one of them; he had no idea what it felt like to look Georgia’s demons in the eye. “But you can’t go on like this, Mama.” His voice hitched, and it took him a moment to collect himself. “I’m afraid of what’s gonna happen to you if you don’t stop.”

  “I’m afraid, too,” Georgia admitted brokenly, her voice a rough whisper. “I’m so afraid sometimes.”

  Limp and woozy, she let Davon lead her down the short hallway to the bedroom at the back of the apartment, where he tucked her in. Removing her wig, he placed it on a stand, then gently wiped off as much of her makeup as he could manage.

  Loosely, already half asleep, Georgia mumbled, “Thank you, Davon. You’re good to me. Better than I deserve.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, turning out the light to hide his anguished expression in the dark. “You were there for me when I had nothing, and now I’m here for you.”

  “I love you, you know.” Georgia’s voice moved like a feather, floating down. “Like my own kid. I had nothing back then, too. We were there for each other.”

  It took a long time before Davon was capable of speaking, and when he did, he could only muster a hoarse whisper. “We’ve got to get you clean, Mama. And we’ve got to get you away from Peck.” There was no answer, because Georgia had already lost consciousness. “I can’t lose you, too.”

  16

  The metro station at Hollywood and Western was damp and cave-like the following Wednesday night, warm air lifting from the underground tunnels and pushing through the tiled platforms and ticketing vestibule. Dressed in her lank brown wig and a pair of thick cheater frames, and carrying several large shopping bags, Margo’s shirt was already stuck to her back by the time the red line train to Union Station rumbled in on the rails.

  Choosing an empty seat at the back of the last car, she arranged her bags beside her, opened up a book, and tried to radiate hostility. She was in what Axel called “day drag”—her contouring was strong, but not theatrical, and her color palette bold but limited. The red line served a few major tourist destinations between North Hollywood and downtown, and although it was fairly empty on a weeknight, she couldn’t afford to be recognized by some starstruck visitor from out of town.

  At Vermont and Sunset, a petite woman with a large gray shopping tote boarded Margo’s car. Stopping right in front of the girl, she cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but is this seat taken?”

  Grunting, Margo shifted her bags to the floor, and Dr. Nadiya Khan sat down beside her. She placed her tote at her feet, crossed her legs, and then surreptitiously nudged it across the floor. Murmuring behind her hand, Margo asked, “Is this everything?”

  “Most of what you asked for. The trackers, fog canisters, rebreathers, and picklocks were simple—and I even managed the print duplicator.”

  “Are you serious?” Margo resisted the urge to throw herself at the woman in a bear hug, but only just. “You’re my hero right now.”

  Nadiya smiled faintly. “Don’t get too excited. I couldn’t get the gas you wanted—our lab doesn’t make it, and I had no way to justify the request. Your father has a strict policy against the design or manufacture of anything resembling offensive weaponry. But I have a feeling you won’t have much trouble getting your hands on the substance you need.”

  “I’ve got some idea where to look,” Margo answered thoughtfully, eyes trained on her fingernails. Any decent-sized animal hospital should have what she was looking for, and the security at those places rarely presented a challenge. “Thank you for all this.”

  “You know what I say,” Dr. Khan returned, rising to her feet as the PA system announced the next stop. “Thank me by not getting caught.”

  The train pulled to a stop and Nadiya got off, while Margo surreptitiously tucked the woman’s heavy gray tote into one of her own shopping bags. Two stops later, the girl switched trains and headed back the way she’d come, returning to Hollywood and Western and climbing the steep, filthy steps into a hideous plaza that matched the station below.

  Almost the second she was in the open again, her phone buzzed in her pocket, and Margo had to shuffle her bags around so she could free it. “Hello?”

  “Hey. Um, it’s me.”

  “Axel?” Obviously it was Axel—it said so on the display; but they hadn’t spoken since Saturday, and Margo had spent most of her time since then planning what she would wear to disrupt his funeral someday. “Are you … what is it?”

  “I’m calling to say I’m sorry,” he mumbled in a rush, like he needed to get the words out before she hung up. “I’m still not happy about Quino being involved, but … he’s right. It’s not my place to decide what he gets to do. Especially when I’m already doing it.” There was a pause, and then he continued, quiet and uncertain. “I just worry about him, you know?”

  Margo softened her voice. “I do.”

  “I’m angry all the time,” Axel finally admitted, “and I guess I forget who I’m supposed to be angry at. I’m sorry for being an ass.”

  “It’s okay.
Everybody’s allowed one good meltdown every now and then.”

  “Yeah, but I wanted to save mine for something more fun.” They both chuckled a little, a laying down of arms, and then Axel said, “Joaquin’s gonna do this whether I like it or not, and me staying home out of spite will only make the odds worse.” He swallowed audibly. “So … I guess what I’m saying is, if it’s cool, I’d like to be part of the job after all.”

  “Of course it’s cool, you idiot! I’m just glad I didn’t have to embarrass myself by begging you to reconsider. But while you’re still feeling guilty, I could use a favor…”

  “This time I owe you,” Axel acknowledged. “What is it?”

  “Break into a veterinary clinic with me tonight?”

  * * *

  Aside from the unwanted attentions of an agitated German shepherd, whose kennel was not nearly as secure as it should’ve been, the break-in at the Glassell Park Animal Hospital went off without a hitch; and on Friday evening, the team reconvened at a lonely stretch of disused service road near Inglewood Oil Field to talk strategy and study their equipment.

  By Saturday night, they were ready to move.

  Act Two:

  SLINGS AND ARROWS

  17

  In October of 1922—two weeks before archaeologist Howard Carter uncovered the steps leading to Tutankhamun’s tomb—the legendary showman Sid Grauman launched his spectacular Egyptian Theatre with the first-ever Hollywood premiere. Adorned by hieroglyphs, sphinxes, and gaudy detailing in fake gold and lapis, the eye-catching cinema brought its theme to life with everything but subtlety.

  A century later, the Egyptian Theatre still stood on Hollywood Boulevard, and still hosted the occasional movie premiere. One such event took place that Saturday night, and spotlights swept the air outside the building’s main entrance. Pausing only long enough to bathe in media flashbulbs, the attendees arrived in style and entered on a red carpet. Among them was a young socialite named Valentina Petrenko.