Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  Margo cocked her head. “Why would I wear an evening gown at three in the afternoon?”

  “I don’t know! Why are you dressed like C-3PO?”

  Margo looked down at her attire. Aware that she was heading to one of LA’s most heavily touristed destinations, she’d disguised herself as a living statue—a street performer who stood motionless, clad head to toe in clothing sprayed with metallic paint, only moving to give a bow or salute when rewarded with a tip. At the moment, she wore a gold bodysuit, gold boots and gloves, a golden helmet, and her skin was slathered with brassy greasepaint.

  “This is what everybody is wearing in Europe these days,” she said innocently. “I’m just upholding my reputation as a trendsetter.”

  Shaking his head, Dallas laughed. “Oh, man. I’ve missed you, Margo.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” They gazed at each other, and she drank in his presence for the first time in two months—the angles of his jaw, his constellation of freckles, the subtle curves of lean muscle that filled out his chest and upper arms—and her nerve endings came alive. Water slapped against the pilings below, and children shouted, but she could still hear her skirt splitting as he lifted her off her feet in Eagle Rock.

  “So,” he finally began, “at the risk of stating the obvious: You’re back! And … you’re dressed like a robot from outer space. Is there some backstory I should know about?”

  “Yeah, there is … there’s a lot you should know about.” Margo exhaled.

  She started with the basics: the truth about Harland’s death; what really happened to Win; her first conversation with Reginald Castor, and the disastrous confrontation with Brand; and, finally, the actual flight for her life in Venice that convinced her to stop running. When she concluded, Dallas had a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, and she couldn’t tell if he was shocked—or if he was afraid she’d completely lost her mind.

  “Actually, it was your whole flirting-with-death routine, jumping off that bridge in Pasadena, that gave me the idea for how to escape,” she prattled on, nerves taking over her mouth. “And if you don’t believe me, I’ve got a scar I can show you from when I tucked and rolled after hitting the ground.” He still didn’t say anything, and she swallowed. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “No—I mean, yes, Margo. Yeah. I believe you.” Dallas pushed his fingers through his hair, eyebrows tented. “It explains a lot. The way Win fell apart after your dad died? I proofread the original will, and when it came out totally different at the reading, I was … you know, shook.” He gazed out at the scalloped coastline, fading to a blue haze in the distance. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. Win wouldn’t answer any of my questions, and he warned me that if I said anything to you he would report me to my advisor and the Bar Association, and make sure my legal career was over before I even finished undergrad.”

  Margo didn’t quite know how to respond. She’d suspected as much, and had struggled with the impulse to be angry at him for not casting all that aside in the name of what was right and just; but the truth was that even if he had spoken up, it wouldn’t have helped. “You couldn’t have proven anything anyway. And because both Win and this Nina McLeod are gone now, there’s no one to say that Dad didn’t want those changes after all.”

  “Still, I just … It’s so fucked up.” Dallas gave her a stricken look. “I’m sorry, Margo. And I’m sorry you’ve had to face this on your own. Addison Brand is even worse than I gave him credit for.” He picked uncomfortably at the railing. “I don’t understand the part about the Russian mob, though. What’s their connection to Manning?”

  “That’s an even longer story.” Squaring her shoulders, Margo readied herself to reveal secrets that would put everyone she cared about in jeopardy. Despite having the boys’ approval, she’d tried to come up with a new strategy that wouldn’t depend on Dallas; she believed that she could trust him—but what if she was wrong? What if the whole truth was more than he could handle?

  But there were no other options. For reasons, and for reasons, it had to be Dallas.

  “I have a plan,” she finally said, “to bring Addison down and challenge the will. But in order to make it work, I’ll need your help.”

  “Anything.” His answer was immediate. “Whatever you need, I’m with you.”

  She almost smiled. “Don’t be too hasty. I’m not talking about a lawsuit. My idea’s a lot more stupid and dangerous than that, so … don’t agree until you know what you’re agreeing to.”

  “Margo.” He slid his hand along the railing until his fingers closed over hers. “Anything.”

  A current zipped between them, one that tightened Margo’s stomach and filled her with tingling memories. His touch made the past two months collapse into nothing; but did he feel the same? They’d never defined their terms, and he’d had no reason to expect her to come back. What if he was already seeing someone else?

  “Win was practically a part of my family,” Dallas went on. “If Brand killed him, and I can help bring that motherfucker to justice, count me in. No matter what.”

  Nodding, looking him square in the eye, she said, “I’m breaking into Manning and stealing the proof that he murdered my dad.”

  He stared at her for a beat. “That’s … You’re joking, right?”

  “No joke.” Calmly, she explained about the contents of Brand’s safe.

  “Margo…” Dallas struggled. “There must be a zillion security precautions in place there! Even if you still have your father’s keys or whatever—”

  “I don’t,” she stated. “From what I’ve been told, Brand rescinded Dad’s security clearance the minute he died, so none of his cards and codes work anymore.”

  “Okay, so it’s even worse than I thought.” Dallas sucked in a breath. “What’s the play, then? Disguise yourself as a janitor and try to sneak past the guards?” He was joking, but the way Margo laughed seemed to alarm him. “You’re acting so blasé about this, Margo. I don’t think you know what you’re up against!”

  “Dallas, I’m acting blasé because I know precisely what I’m up against.” Steeling herself, she came out with it. “A while ago, you asked me who I am when the cameras aren’t on. Well … this is it. This is who I am. My friends and I … we’re thieves.”

  He stared for a long moment, fighting an uncertain chuckle, waiting for the punch line. Producing her phone, she then drew up articles that had been written about their past jobs: LAMFA, the Chinese consulate, the MGM Grand—one by one, she walked him through every break-in, explaining how each heist was executed, adding precise details the reports had left out.

  “I don’t understand,” Dallas stammered when she was finished, no longer laughing; now he looked frightened, and a chilly thread of apprehension traveled her spine. “You really … you did all this?”

  “I was bored and looking for a way to rebel.” Margo’s hands were slick inside her tinted gloves. “At first it was just about breaking the rules and feeling like a badass, which is embarrassingly typical, but then … well, we had actual reasons to keep going. And it was exciting. And we’re good.” From her pocket, she pulled out an earring—rubies set in solid gold. “I took this from a secured case in a locked room in a fortified fucking castle the night my dad was hospitalized. I’ve studied judo, jujitsu, krav maga, capoeira, and mixed martial arts; I can fire a crossbow, hold my breath for over ninety seconds, and parachute out of tall buildings. And I make a killer red velvet cake.” She said the last part with a nervous laugh, watching Dallas’s eyes unfocus. When he didn’t say anything, she nodded. “You think I made all this up, don’t you?”

  His eyes snapped to hers, like he was seeing her for the first time. “No. I actually think I believe you. Which is sorta scary.” Gazing at the earring, he said, “A castle?”

  Without getting into specifics, she described the Topanga Canyon adventure. “It’s the reason I’m in disguise. The guy identified me, and now he wants my head on a plate.”

  “Wow.” Dallas�
��s expression was unreadable, his eyes taking her in from head to toe. “You really are full of surprises. And, you know, trouble. Apparently.”

  Margo felt a little sick. “If this is too much for you, I get it. I wouldn’t be bringing my trouble to your door if the situation weren’t desperate—and I’m sorry for dumping all this on you and asking you to help me go after Brand. If you’ve changed your mind, and you need to walk away from me, I get it; but I need you, Dallas. And I really hope you’re still in.”

  “Are you kidding?” He grinned exuberantly, an intensity crackling in his bright brown eyes. “All the risky shit I’ve done since Win died—jumping off bridges and out of planes—made me realize how bored I am when I’m not about to die. I don’t think I’m a normal person, Margo, and you have no idea what it’s like to know a girl this sexy, this smart, who’s into even more life-threatening shit than me. You bet your ass I’m still in.”

  Margo laughed, the sound bubbling up on a wave of relief. “Jeez, if I’d known the way to your heart was through your adrenal glands, I’d have told you about this stuff a lot sooner. Most guys aren’t really amped to date kick-boxing cat burglars.”

  The dimples appeared in his cheeks. “I really want to kiss you, Margo Manning.”

  She grabbed him by his T-shirt and pulled, and he fell into her. Their mouths met, his thumbs on the pulse points below her ears while she felt his heart thumping against her palm, even through her glove—and despite the fact that Dallas was blocking her light, Margo could feel the sun on her face.

  When they split apart, still gazing at each other, Margo giggled again. “You’ve, uh … got a little something on your face…”

  With a lazy smile, Dallas scrubbed gold paint off his mouth with the back of his hand. “So when do we get started?”

  “As soon as possible. I know I look fabulous in this outfit, but I want to get the target off my back so I can wear my own clothes again. If my plan works, it’ll bring down the guy who’s after me as well.”

  “Where do I come in?”

  “We’ll talk full details later, but there are a few things you can do right away.” Some vacationers crowded the railing, snapping photographs, and Margo stepped closer. In low murmurs, she described what she had in mind. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Can you pull that off?”

  “Yeah, for sure.” He smiled, his cheeks flushed. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been waiting for a challenge like this.”

  She chuckled again, uneasy. “See, now I feel like you’re the one who’s being a little too blasé.”

  “Not blasé,” he promised smugly. “I just know I’m good under pressure.”

  It was a statement that rang true enough; skydiving wasn’t exactly the sport of a guy prone to panic or self-doubt. “Thank you, Dallas. I don’t think I can even begin to tell you how much this means to me.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I’ve spent months trying to play lawyer, and now I feel like I’m finally doing something I’m cut out for.” Gazing at the sparkling ocean, waves breaking into pearly froth, Dallas shielded his eyes. “Just be careful, okay? I’ve already lost you twice; I don’t want to go through it again.”

  “Neither do I.” Margo drew back, wishing she could stay a little longer. “You be careful, too.”

  Turning, she slipped into the throng of tourists that flocked the pier, head down as she pushed toward the ramp leading to the street. The ball was rolling; Dallas was on board, the plan was in motion—and it was going to work. She could feel it.

  * * *

  The gold helmet gleamed until it was swallowed by the crowd, and Dallas gripped the railing, watching her disappear. A pensive line formed between his eyebrows. Her story had been outlandish, but not so hard to believe—in fact, for reasons he’d kept to himself, he’d almost been expecting it. Pulling out his phone, he dialed a number.

  The call was answered on the first ring. “You certainly took your time getting in touch.”

  “She just left, like, thirty seconds ago,” Dallas returned, already irritated.

  “My sources tell me she’s been in the US for over three weeks now. You expect me to believe that this is the first time she’s made contact?”

  “You might be surprised to hear this, but I don’t care what you believe.” Dallas’s voice was ice-cold. “You said you’d pay for information about Margo, but let’s be clear: I don’t owe you shit. If you’re going to talk to me like one of your flunkies, I formally invite you to go fuck yourself.”

  “Such language.” Addison Brand gave a smarmy chuckle, his breath puffing through the speaker. “You need to relax, Mr. Yang. And you also need to remember that what I offered to pay for was not ‘information about Margo,’ but specifically—”

  “I remember the offer,” Dallas stated, “vividly. You said you expected her to plan some kind of move against you … and you were right. She just asked me to help her.”

  “I see.” The man was quiet for a moment. “What did you say?”

  “What do you think? I said yes.”

  “So duplicitous.” Brand sounded almost pleased.

  “Not necessarily. There are lots of reasons to back her horse; I want to know how many reasons you’re willing to give me not to.”

  Brand snorted, pressing his mouth against the receiver. “Listen to me, you chiseling little shit: We already discussed this, and you know exactly what the amount is.”

  “I know what it was then,” Dallas replied, “but inflation is a bitch.”

  There was a long silence, and then Brand came back. “I’m not paying you a dime until I know your intel is worth something.”

  “And I’m not delivering shit until I’ve seen enough untraceable currency with my own two eyes to convince me you’re playing ball.” Dallas switched hands with his phone. “No shady bank transfers, no suitcases full of dye and explosives … I’ll bring my own bag, you’ll give me clean currency, and I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  There was another, lengthier pause. Then, “Fine. It’s a deal. Come by my office tomorrow.”

  When he hung up, Dallas tucked his phone away and stared off at the shoreline, his jaw tense and his eyes trained on the gulls spiraling over the bluffs.

  Trying not to think too hard about what he’d just done.

  39

  The Valley always seemed to be ten degrees hotter than the rest of Los Angeles, and the next afternoon was no exception. It was April, and temperatures were already nudging ninety in Van Nuys; by the height of summer it was going to be cooler in the earth’s core than on its surface—at least in any neighborhood Davon and Georgia could afford.

  They’d already looked at three listings that day, one in Sun Valley and two in Reseda—the twenty-sixth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-eighth apartments they’d seen in total—and it was beginning to feel hopeless. Rents rose by the hour, and even with the remaining money from the LAMFA job, many places were still out of their long-term price range. And then there were the application fees they had to turn over for the privilege of having their credit scores rejected by faceless rental corporations; after their tenth such wasted expense, they’d become a lot less enthusiastic about the search.

  When their last dismal visit concluded, Davon announced that they were done for the day. To cheer them up, instead of returning straight to Malibu, he drove to the Japanese Garden in Woodley Park. Six and a half acres of carefully manicured greenery, stone pathways, and man-made pools, it sounded like exactly the kind of peace and serenity that would clear their minds.

  What he’d failed to take into account was the water reclamation plant that made the site possible; expansive, retro-futuristic, and industrial, it sat like an abandoned UFO on one side of the garden, its glass-paned frontage visible from everywhere but inside the bathroom. The gummy stench of algae clung to the air, ducks and egrets defecated on the trails, and Davon struggled to sound chipper as he cooed over the budding cherry trees.

  Georgia was uncharacteristi
cally silent, her expression drawn, and eventually Davon ran out of things to say. When they came upon a model teahouse, with a spacious interior of bamboo floors and paper screens, they sat and looked out at plants flowering around a gray-green pond.

  Davon was just about to ask if something was wrong when Georgia spoke. “I want to come back to Tuck/Marry/Kill, Davon. I need to be working.”

  “I don’t know, Mama.” He eyed his drag mother unhappily, wishing he could cancel the conversation. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

  “You mean, is it a good idea for a recovering addict to work in a bar? Probably not.” She snorted a laugh. “But as hard as sobriety is, not performing is worse. I know you’re nervous about me relapsing, but I can handle it. I’m okay.”

  “No offense, girl, but I’ve heard those words before.” Davon couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “And we got a lot going on here. Let’s take care of our housing crisis before we focus on jobs, you know?”

  “If I started working again, we’d look better on those applications.”

  “That’s true. But if you did relapse … Mama, you can’t ride this roller coaster forever. It was kind of a miracle that we were able to make Cornerstone happen. Next time, if there is a next time…” He trailed off, squirming a little.

  Georgia took a moment before speaking, her voice controlled. “Davon, I’ve been fucked up on booze and pills for most of my life, and getting my head clear for the first time in about thirty-odd years helped me face some things I’ve been avoiding.” She plucked a little nervously at her collar. “Drugs are an easy escape from stuff that’s hard, or scary, or confusing, you know? Whenever something tipped me into the red, I could always disappear into my downers.” She crossed her ankles, then uncrossed them again. “These past two months, I haven’t had my escape hatch to jump through. When confusing shit came up, I had to deal with it, and … and I accepted something that I need to share.”