Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “Jeez, you make it sound so depressing.”

  “Sorry. But that’s me: a caffeine-addicted adrenaline-junkie-slash-Margo-Manning fanboy who can’t decide what to do with his future. What about you?” He aimed his spoon at her with a lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows. “I showed you my layers; let’s see yours. You’re not a hundred percent the girl from the magazines, but there’s gotta be some of you in there, too.”

  “Of course there is.” Margo smiled faintly. “I mean, I like fashion and going to parties; I love feeling like a pretty princess sometimes; I love that my choices are trendy just because they’re my choices … but.” She gave an uncomfortable shrug. “Sometimes I hate it, too. People want to use me, and I don’t always know who until it’s too late. Guys think they’re entitled to my body because they’ve seen pictures of it on the internet, or that grabbing my ass is worth the bragging rights.” Margo stole a glance at Dallas’s face, taking in his expression. “I broke a guy’s wrist once. He sued for damages and we had to settle out of court, but I’ll tell you what: That was worth the bragging rights.”

  “Okay, so you’re a fashion-plate party-girl-slash-Wonder-Woman enthusiast who can take a man apart with one hand.”

  “I used both hands,” Margo admitted modestly.

  “Either way, you’re a surprising and fascinating person, Margo Manning. And a little intimidating.”

  She busied her hands, wondering how he would react if she told him the full truth—if she would ever feel comfortable telling someone that much truth. “Ah, but you are the one with the mesmerizing beauty!”

  Dallas laughed, his face turning pink again, and he picked up his cappuccino. He had large hands, the huge mug sitting comfortably in one palm as he drained the last of its contents. When he set it down, he licked foam from his top lip, and Margo averted her eyes when he glanced her way. “When you’re done, would you like to maybe go for a walk?”

  “A walk? How Pride and Prejudice of you!” Margo’s blood was practically singing with caffeine. “A walk sounds lovely, Mr. Yang. Frankly, I’m pretty sure I could jog all the way to Tierra del Fuego after finishing this coffee.”

  “Maybe on our second date,” Dallas riposted, and then his eyes went huge at the same moment Margo lifted her brows. “Wait! I didn’t mean—”

  “Did you say ‘second date’?” Margo interrupted. “Is this … were you—”

  “That just slipped out!” Dallas’s face was almost the same burgundy shade as the decorative curtain in Arkady Petrenko’s turret. “Obviously, this isn’t a date—I mean, unless you wanted it to be, or whatever, but obviously you don’t, and that’s cool! It’s totally cool. I was just thinking that, you know, I wanted … what I mean is: I was interested … but, like, I know that dudes get presumptuous with you, and I don’t want…”

  He petered out helplessly, and Margo gave him a smile. “You just used a whole lotta words to not actually say anything.”

  “Believe it or not, I took home two debate trophies in high school.”

  Margo smiled again. “A silver-tongued, caffeine-addicted adrenaline-junkie-slash-Margo-Manning fanboy who can’t decide what to do with his future.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “And, just for the record, I wouldn’t be opposed to going on a date. Officially. If you asked.”

  “Oh.” Dallas looked into her eyes and a corner of his mouth quirked up, those dimples showing themselves again. “Well then. Margo Manning, would you make me the happiest of all fanboys and do me the honor of accepting a dinner invitation?”

  “I would be delighted to, Master Yang,” Margo said. The air shifted and she caught his scent—citrus and clove—and she fought the urge to lunge at him, mouth first. “I was afraid you’d never ask.”

  “I was kind of afraid of that, too.” His smile broke into a grin.

  Margo followed him out of the café and onto the sidewalk once her mug was empty, watching the way his pants hugged the muscles in his thighs—wondering how his large hands would feel tangled in her hair. She was a little dizzy, and not just from the espresso, when she realized her phone was buzzing in her purse. Seeing the name on the display, she tensed. “It’s Uncle Win. I wonder what—”

  The answer to her unfinished question occurred to her so jarringly it stole the breath from her lungs. All of a sudden, she knew—she knew—and it was as if she was drifting loose from her body. She didn’t want to answer it; she wanted to let it ring and ring forever, but somehow the phone ended up at her ear, and she heard her own voice say hello from a million miles off.

  “Margo.” Clive Winchester Martin’s familiar voice was so heavy it was a miracle she managed to keep the phone aloft. “Margo, my dear, I am so sorry to tell you this.” He heaved a sigh, and she almost blew away with it. “I’m so sorry. It’s your father. He … I’m afraid he’s gone. He’s gone, Margo.”

  At last the cell phone slipped from her fingers and crashed to the pavement, and her insides came apart at the seams.

  Act Three:

  SEA OF TROUBLES

  22

  Seven days passed in an ugly smear, time distorting and blistering, like a film reel caught on a projector. Minutes lasted for epochs, and then Margo would blink and find herself standing in the kitchen, having lost entire hours. The world wouldn’t leave her alone; Harland had imparted detailed instructions for his final exit, but still there were calls to be made, letters to answer, guests to receive—and the only one left to do it was Margo.

  The memorial service erupted from the calendar like a mountain sprouting from the earth, and she readied herself that morning, surprised each time she managed to take another step forward. Her father had not been a religious man, and so all the guests gathered on a seaside bluff behind the funeral home to pay tribute to Harland Manning. It was winter in LA, which meant cloudy skies and a brooding, gunmetal ocean, but Margo kept her sunglasses on.

  One by one, people she barely knew got up to share their memories, and she was stunned by how few of them she recognized. Successively, they reminisced about Harland’s business acumen and ambition; there were no wistful stories about him as a friend, a mentor, a benevolent figure. His legacy consisted of charts and graphs—and Margo.

  His only living heir, she made a lonely receiving line at the end of the ceremony, fielding handshakes and pitying condolences, drawing on every scrap of her willpower to remain upright. Predictably, her mother had chosen not to attend, and Margo was too dazed to figure out if she was angry or relieved about it. Axel, however, stood beside her throughout, a hand on her elbow, weathering the scrutiny of the many attendees who were victims of Basil Moreau’s scam. Unable to articulate her gratitude, she reached for his hand and squeezed it as hard as she could.

  “Margo.” Addison Brand appeared before her with probing eyes, and pulled her into an abrupt embrace. His cheek scraping her own, his arms uncomfortably tight, he intoned, “It’s so hard to believe that he’s gone. Please know that this is from the whole Manning family when I say you have our deepest sympathies.”

  It took Margo one long synaptic moment to realize that he meant her father’s company. She was all that remained of the “Manning family” now. “Thank you, Mr. Brand.”

  “Please. Call me Addison.” He stepped back, his long fingers still kneading her upper arms. “And if there’s anything that Manning can do for you, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “Creepy,” Axel muttered under his breath as soon as the man had moved on.

  “You’d think my dad’s funeral would be the one time he’d avoid the urge to touch me inappropriately.” Margo scowled. “I can’t wait to never see him again.”

  Brand’s place was taken by an older Black man with graying hair and a pouchy face. Clasping both of Margo’s hands in his, he spoke sonorously. “Your father was a great man with a singular vision, and it was both an honor and a pleasure to be a part of his success. You should be very proud of everything he accomplished.”

  “I am, and thank yo
u.” Margo’s reply came automatically, a reflex trained by countless repetitions in the past few days.

  “I hope you know, Margo, that he saw great things for you. You were the one achievement he could never fully take credit for, and the one that he talked about the most.” He gave her a kindly smile, but her jaw trembled too much to manage a response, so she merely nodded until he moved on.

  Axel slipped a tissue discreetly into Margo’s hand. “Who was that?”

  “Reginald Castor,” Margo answered when she could speak again. “He sits on Manning’s board of directors. He was the second largest shareholder, after Dad.”

  “Does that mean he’s in charge of the company, now?”

  “I don’t really know what’s going on with the company. The board chairman is different from the CEO. Or, I mean, in theory.” Margo shook her head. “Sorry. It’s a lot of complex business stuff, but it really depends on what my dad did with his shares. He was founder, CEO, and chairman, so Manning’s never faced this kind of leadership crisis. The shareholders will elect a new chairman—maybe Castor—and the board will appoint a new CEO.” She gestured after the departed man, who had been waylaid by Brand, an obsequious expression on his face. “I’m guessing that role will be Addison’s.”

  “Damn. And I thought tucking my dick was complicated.”

  Margo hid her fit of church giggles with a round of coughing, and when she had regained her composure, Nadiya Khan was at the head of the receiving line. Her expression impassive, the woman said, “I want you to know how sorry I am for your loss. I had a tremendous amount of respect for your father.” After Margo had mumbled her gratitude, the scientist hesitated. “I was thinking … would it be all right if I stopped by the house this week to see how you’re doing? When my mother passed, there were so many simple tasks that felt overwhelming, and it would be my pleasure to offer some help.”

  “Of course,” Margo answered, but tension gathered between her shoulders in spite of Dr. Khan’s friendly smile. It wasn’t that she doubted the woman’s sincerity, but something in her tone …

  “Margo, my girl, my dear girl.” The sickly-sweet odor of metabolized alcohol enveloped her even before Win Martin leaned in to grasp her arms. His eyes were unfocused and bloodshot, and Margo was taken aback by his gloomy and obvious drunkenness. “We’ve lost a noble man. Your father was a pain in the ass, but one of the finest pains in the ass I’ve ever known.” He scrubbed his partially shaven face, his breath stinging with the smell of gin, and she was so embarrassed she almost had to look away. “I’m sorry, Margo. I … I don’t know how else to say it. There’s no justice in this, and no amount of sorry will ever equal your loss, but … I’m sorry just the same.”

  “Thank you for coming, Uncle Win,” she managed, every square inch of her skin crawling with the need for this moment to end.

  “All right, Win, let’s give Margo some space.” A woman in a dark suit swept in from the side, gently peeling the man loose and guiding him back a few steps. “It’s a long line, and there’ll be plenty of time to chat at the reception.”

  With a start, Margo recognized the woman as Liliana Perez, Dallas’s mother—and as Liliana steered Win off through a battlefield of plastic folding chairs, flashing a helpless look over her shoulder, her son appeared in her wake. His expression mortified, Dallas shook his head. “Sorry about that. Win’s a little … it’s been a rough week.”

  “Is he okay?” Margo couldn’t stop staring as Liliana shepherded her father’s attorney toward the parking lot, his shoulders stooped and his steps crooked. “I mean, he didn’t drive himself here, did he?”

  “We drove him,” Dallas promised.

  “I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “Neither have I. Mom always joked that he was a party animal, but that meant, you know, a glass of dry sherry, and then trying to make a roomful of grown-ups play Twister or something. But this week … he’s been hitting the bottle like it hit him first. I know he and your dad were close, but I wasn’t prepared for this.” Dallas ran a hand through his short, dark hair, his features pinched with concern. She caught his scent again, and felt a twist of painful nostalgia in her heart. “Are you … how are you holding up?”

  “Ask me when I get here.” She managed a weak smile. Tossing her hands out, she took in the entire scene—the funeral wreaths, the swags of black silk covering the lectern, the roiling whitecaps on the ocean—and shook her head. “None of this feels real. I keep expecting to wake up, for someone to tell me there’s been a mistake.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dallas said earnestly. “Really, I’m just … I’m so sorry, Margo. I always remembered your dad as this, like, Colossus, you know? Larger than life, dominating every room…” He trailed off, pulling at his tie. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

  She cast another look around the windswept bluff, at the line of people still waiting for their chance to remind her of her loss, and shuddered. “I could use a drink.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He gave her a conspiratorial nod, one corner of his mouth ticking up; and then the expression passed. “Margo, I feel like I should say something. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but it’s got to be hell. I’m not…” He looked at his feet, suddenly finding his shoes fascinating. “I wanted you to know that I’m not going to hold you to what we talked about at the café. You’ve got so much to deal with, and the timing is just … well, what I’m trying to say is, I’d like to be here for you as a friend. If you need one.”

  Just like that, Margo started to sob. Her shoulders hitched, her chest convulsed, and she struggled to get air into her lungs as Axel rubbed her back. Finally, she squeaked out, “I think I need a hug.”

  Dallas wrapped his arms around her, and she felt the hard planes of his body through his tailored suit, and she breathed in the warm scent of citrus oil and clove. Dallas was right: She was in no condition to think about dating right now—but for just that moment, it was a blessing not to be alone.

  * * *

  Nearly another hour passed before the line dwindled to its end, and Margo’s head was throbbing. Irina was probably already welcoming guests to the mansion for the wake, which would start just as soon as the bereaved daughter could arrive—to no doubt be hustled through yet another gauntlet of condolences. The prospect made her want to run away to the moon, but she didn’t have a choice. Win, if he was still conscious, would be reading Harland’s will that afternoon.

  Escorting her back to the parking lot, waving to the remaining mourners who smoked and gossiped outside the door, Axel finally murmured, “Okay, girl, I’ve been really patient, but it’s time you spilled the tea.”

  “What are you talking about? What tea?”

  “‘What are you talking about?’” He mimicked with an exasperated eye roll. “I am talking about the five-alarm-fire of a boy who hugged you earlier, and whose hot, hot body you put your hands all over without even offering to share.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “‘Oh, right,’” Axel repeated her. “Does tall, dark, and do-me have a name? I want a complete dossier, with all relevant and pornographic statistics.”

  “Well.” She couldn’t help feeling a little smug. “His name is Dallas Yang, he is an adrenaline-junkie-slash-legal-intern, I think he’s a Leo, and he’s already seen me naked.” When her best friend tripped, his eyes popping open wide, she let out a delighted cackle and filled in the blanks. “His mom left Win’s practice when I was a kid, and he kinda vanished from my life. And then one day … there he was at the house.”

  “I don’t want to gross you out,” Axel said evenly, “but I’m going to get carpal tunnel thinking about him.”

  “Stop! No!” Margo exclaimed. “I am officially grossed out!”

  “That was a masturbation reference, if you didn’t get—”

  “I got it! Stop!”

  “Because if you do it too vigorously—”

  “I’m going to get carpal tunnel punching your face if you
don’t—”

  “Miss Manning?” The sudden voice startled her and Margo drew up short, the grin vanishing from her face in an instant. Standing before them was a tall man in a long, dark coat; leaning against a cane, a wide-brimmed fedora pulled down over one eye, his face showed the scarring of a severe burn. “I’m afraid I missed the ceremony, but I wanted to be sure I expressed my condolences to you on the loss of your father.”

  “Th-thank you,” Margo managed, pulling up a polite smile. She’d seen him many times before, of course, but only in the dusty shadows of his back room, where they pretended he didn’t know her real name. It was Vojak—her fence.

  “If you need anything.” With a gloved hand, the man proffered a business card, which Margo plucked from his fingers. Touching the brim of his hat, Vojak gave a nod. “Grief is a terrible thing, Miss Manning. Please take care of yourself.”

  His long coat swirling in the wind that gusted over the asphalt, he turned and started walking toward a dark sedan in a corner of the lot, his cane clicking rhythmically. Axel stared after him with undisguised awe. “Damn. Talk about fucking eleganza. He was wearing spats, Margo—spats!”

  She mumbled an agreement, but her attention was fixed on the card. The front was generic—a logo, a web address, and BRIGHT EYES TRAVEL in block letters—but something had been scrawled on the back. It was a nearby address, a house on a private road just minutes away, and under it was a single word: NOW.

  * * *

  It took a while to persuade Axel to let her drive back to the mansion alone, to convince him that she needed that time to herself to regroup after the memorial; and longer waiting for his ride-share to arrive and whisk him off, so she’d know he wouldn’t be behind her when she detoured to her unexpected rendezvous.