Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “I hate to say it,” he confessed, “but jet lag is kicking my ass and I need to sit down.”

  She took him to Campo Santa Maria Formosa, where another imposing church looked out on a narrow canal and a stone bridge with an iron filigree railing. The boisterous public square stretched from northeast to southwest, and the towering campanile was a weathered off-white that looked almost rosy in the late-afternoon sun. Along the embankment was an outdoor restaurant with metal mesh tables, and Margo claimed one for them. Axel sank into his chair with a groan of relief.

  She ordered pasta and a bottle of champagne, and they stuffed themselves as small boats passed beneath the bridge and a group of boys shared a cigarette at the water’s edge. Finally, satisfied and a little delirious from fatigue, Axel decided it was time to broach the subject he’d been working toward all day. “So … Venice is kind of amazing.”

  “Right?” Margo perked up, setting aside her champagne. “And you’ve barely seen anything! There’s the Arsenale and the Ghetto Nuovo, and even a cemetery island—and then there’s the food!” She sat back, shaking her head with disapproval. “I can’t believe you’re only here for one night.”

  “I mean, I’d love to stay, but shit keeps rolling downhill back in Malibu and I have to deal with it.” He poked at the remains of his pasta. “And there’s no place like home, right?”

  Margo’s smile flickered and faded. She reached for her champagne. “The saying I remember is, ‘You can’t go home again.’”

  “That’s not true,” he said softly. She didn’t answer, and he reached across the table to touch her hand. “Please come back to LA? We miss you. I miss you.”

  Clearing her throat, she took a drink. “It kinda sounds like everybody’s doing awesome right now without me around to screw everything up.”

  “What are you—”

  “You tried to talk me out of the Petrenko job, and I wouldn’t listen,” she finally blurted, her eyes on her plate. “Now he’s after us, and it’s my fault.”

  “I was against the Petrenko job because I was being a controlling asshole,” Axel rebutted. “You and Quino both called me out on that, and you were both right. We all knew Arkady dabbled in the black market—you told us that—and every one of us should have seen the hazard lights. We were just too hypnotized by the money.”

  “It was my call,” Margo tried, but he cut her off again.

  “We voted. And once I stopped being a dick, it was unanimous.”

  “And then there’s Brand,” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Petrenko is a loose cannon, but Addison is the one holding the fuse. All he needs is a reason to light it up.”

  “He doesn’t need a reason!” Axel was frustrated. “Apparently, he had plenty to hold over your dad’s attorney, but he killed him anyway because he got paranoid! He knows you’ve got shit on him, Margo, and even if he thinks he’s sitting pretty, sooner or later he’s going to decide that shutting you up is better than counting on you to stay quiet.”

  “The point is, I don’t have shit on him!” she finally retaliated, light in her eyes. “I’ve got traces of a possible poison, and no way to prove where it came from; I’ve got a bunch of speculation from Reginald Castor, who says nothing he’s got will hold up in court. And if I push him, or if I even tempt him, Brand will either expose us or hand our names to Petrenko.” With a harsh laugh, she added, “I can hide, Axel, but what about Leif and Davon? What about you and Quino and Jacinta? You’d be sitting ducks.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Axel gestured to the church, to its backdrop of sky gone brassy and pink at the edges, to the canal and the gondolas and the people tucking up their collars against the evening chill. “You’re hiding here while we all hang our asses over the line?”

  “That’s not fair!” Spots of color appeared in Margo’s cheeks again. “I’m here because, right now, I’m the only one Petrenko knows about; I’m here because it shows Brand I’m playing ball; I’m here because LA is too full of ghosts!”

  “So you’re hiding,” Axel summarized. It came out too fast, too cold; he was used to being honest with Margo, and unaccustomed to arguments that carried this much weight. Wearily, he exhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m punch drunk, and I’m not putting my words together right. Margo, babe … LA doesn’t belong to Petrenko or Brand or the ghosts; it belongs to you. We can figure something out and kick their asses. We can help, you know? You’re not alone.

  “Remember how I was when we first started stealing shit in Malibu? You got me through the darkest time of my life! You’re the one who built this team, and you’re the one who stitched it together. We’re family now, the five of us, and we don’t let anyone go through anything alone.” He searched her face, but it was shut down, barriers in her eyes. “Look. Leif’s paid up for this year at the academy, but he’s still got next year to worry about—and the summer, too, if he doesn’t want to go back to East Dumptruck Corners; and Davon might have enough cash for an apartment, but rents are out of control. He’ll need more. And I don’t even want to get into Mami’s medical bills, or what we’re gonna owe in taxes next month. I don’t even want to think about it. So we need you, Margo. We need you.”

  She stayed quiet, and his head was swimming, exhaustion clogging his thoughts. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. “Margo, I miss you. Quino, Leif, Davon … they’re family, but they’re not you. I don’t have anyone to talk to about the stuff I need to talk about—and I don’t think you do, either.”

  Margo pulled the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket, refilling her flute, hand shaking. Her mouth turning down, her eyes sad, she said, “I’m sorry, Axel, but I’d be an idiot to start a gunfight with no ammunition, and I won’t play fast and loose with other people’s lives.” They watched bubbles rise and break in her glass. “Maybe I am hiding, but sometimes hiding is the difference between dying and staying alive.”

  Her words made sense, but they were still disappointing. He’d come to Italy to convince her to return home, to mount some kind of offensive; they’d pulled off the impossible before, so why not again? Why not now, when it really counted? But for the first time since he’d known her, Margo Manning was giving up.

  “I get it. I won’t fight you.” Rising to his feet, hoisting up his backpack, Axel struggled to make his tone light. “Anyway, if I don’t get to my hostel in the next thirty minutes, I’m probably going to black out right here in the street.”

  “A hostel?” Margo reacted like he planned to sleep in a pile of feces. “That’s stupid, Axel, my mom and stepdad have a palazzo on the canal! There are tons of rooms, and—”

  “I appreciate it, but I booked a place close to the bus station on purpose. I have to be up at the ass-crack to catch my flight home.” He shuffled his feet, trying not to wonder when he’d see her again. “I’m glad I came, though. Happy birthday, Margo. I love you.”

  He turned and started walking, not sure where he was or which direction he was headed—just desperate to get away before she could offer to walk with him. Before she could see that he was crying.

  * * *

  Happy birthday, Margo. I love you.

  The words rang in her ears like the bells that chimed every hour in Venice, a chorus of countless churches across the constellation of ancient islands. Axel’s was the fate Addison Brand had wielded against her; his safety had been a big part of the reason she’d chosen to leave … so why did she feel so guilty?

  Was he right? Was she really just hiding, cloaking her cowardice in self-sacrifice, and hoping her mistakes wouldn’t catch up with her? Maybe Brand’s threats and Petrenko’s fury had just been a convenient excuse to slip away from a life that had gone from sad to precarious—to avoid a challenging fight that she just might lose. As the sun slipped lower, tawny light painting the campanile, a chill breeze swept up the canal and made the boys at the water’s edge shiver. Margo poured the last of the champagne into her glass.

  She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear footst
eps approaching, didn’t notice there was anyone there until she heard a deep voice: “Margo Manning? You will come with us now if you want to live.”

  Looking up, she saw three very large men. The jackets they wore couldn’t disguise the tattoos on their hands—or the speaker’s thick Russian accent. Or the guns that weighed down their pockets.

  Petrenko had caught up with her after all.

  35

  “You come with us now,” the first man repeated belligerently, while Margo stalled for time. He had a strip of shiny, puckered flesh across his neck, as if he’d survived having his throat slit, and one pocketed hand pressed a gun against the fabric so she could see its outline. “And you will be quiet. Understand?”

  “But I haven’t even finished my drink yet,” she protested with calm innocence, looking them over. They were tall and bulky, and from their body language it was clear that Scar was their leader. The other two could be twins—dark hair, cold eyes, thin lips; but one had a messy skull and crossbones inked on the back of his hand, and the other wore a single earring in the shape of a dagger.

  Scar reached down and boldly plucked the flute from Margo’s hand, tossing its contents out. “Now you are finished.”

  In Russian, he ordered the twins to grab her, and the men obediently moved in. Scanning the campo in the waning, pink sunlight, Margo thought fast; the only child of a multimillionaire, she’d been taking self-defense classes since she was six years old, and the first lesson was “never let them move you to a second location.” They were formidable opponents, but her chances were only going to get worse.

  The twins stepped close, one on either side, and made to haul her from her chair—but she didn’t wait. Springing to her feet, Margo snatched the empty champagne bottle from the ice bucket and hammered it against Earring’s skull like a club, the blow so hard she felt it up to her elbow; in the same fluid motion, she spun backward, lashing out with her right leg, slamming her foot into Crossbones’s chest. Taken by surprise, the man reeled backward and stumbled off the embankment, plunging into the canal.

  The outbreak of violence brought a hush over the plaza; all attention turned on Margo as she hooked her foot beneath her metal chair and launched it clumsily into the air at Scar—just as he wrestled his pistol free. It caught him in the elbow and he yelped, the gun going off, a bullet tearing into the stone at his feet. Diners screamed, evacuating their tables, and a stampede set off across the square as people fled for safety.

  Weaving a little from his blow to the head, Earring had his gun out now, and came at Margo from the side. She swung the bottle at his wrist, disarming him, a sharp crack ringing out across Campo Santa Maria Formosa. She danced back as he took an unsteady swipe, moving to put him between her and Scar, to obscure the other man’s shot.

  Earring threw another punch, a haymaker, and clipped Margo in the jaw. It was a graze, but with so much force behind it that she nearly lost her footing. The ground seesawed, lights flashing, and she staggered out of range. Sucking in air, she tried to shake it off, preparing for a third advance; and when the man swung his fist again, she blocked hard, simultaneously driving a front kick into his gut.

  Just as he doubled over, clearing Scar’s sight line, she flung the bottle with all her strength; it streaked the short distance, smashing into the ringleader’s jaw, and he pulled the trigger a second time. The bullet caught metal and glass, but Margo was already leaping forward, spring-boarding off a chair, launching into a full rotation.

  Scar recovered, bringing his gun arm up, but Margo’s foot slammed into it and sent the weapon clattering to the stone pavers. As she touched the ground and straightened back up, the man threw a punch that caught her in the flank and sent her crashing into one of the abandoned tables. A steak Florentine and a massive bowl of pasta slid to the edge, water glasses toppling and spilling through the metal mesh.

  Closing in, Scar pressed his advantage, and she thought fast, swinging around with the stoneware bowl and shattering it across his skull. His eyes flickered and rolled, and she rammed an elbow into his throat, dropping him—first to his knees and then flat to the ground—with an ugly gurgle.

  Then an arm like an anaconda wrapped around her throat from behind, cutting off her air in an instant, and she was lifted nearly off her feet. Furiously, Earring snarled, “You fucking bitch. I teach you some manners!”

  He squeezed harder, and pain shot through Margo’s neck, sparkling into her jaw. Scar lay in a heap at her feet, but she could hear Crossbones dragging himself back out of the canal, and the campo was deserted—no one to hear, no one to help. She kicked hard at Earring’s knee, but got his calf by mistake, and the man gave an evil laugh. Slamming his fist into her kidney, he growled in her ear as the pain nearly made her vomit.

  Her vision doubled and her lungs aflame, Margo saw only one way out; thrusting a shaky hand at the vanished diner’s Florentine, she came up with a sharp, serrated steak knife. Emitting a feral grunt, she drove the blade deep into the flesh of Earring’s shoulder, and the man screamed piteously, releasing his grip. Gasping for air, Margo seized the narrow advantage of surprise, grabbing his head and slamming it into the edge of the metal table, dropping him to the ground.

  Coughing and gagging, her vision full of stars, Margo didn’t wait to confront Crossbones again. Taking off at a crooked run, she darted past the church and onto the bridge, a shot ringing out just before she plunged into the narrow safety of Calle Bande Castello—a slim corridor lined with shops and hemmed in by tall buildings, confused tourists ducking aside as she staggered past.

  Her lungs ached, her lower back and right shoulder throbbing, and she struggled for air. For nearly two months Margo had been mired in depression, skipping her regular workouts in favor of comfort food and long days in bed, and her stamina was at a perilous low. Legs heavy, forehead beaded with sweat, she was already slowing down as she fought a zigzag path through the tide of nighttime revelers flooding into San Marco.

  Scar and Earring were probably both down for the count, but Crossbones would be full of a vengeful rage—and ready to resort to deadly force.

  Her thoughts were punctuated by two explosive reports behind her, a chorus of screams going up as tourists hit the ground. The first shot missed her by a country mile, but the second came so close Margo could practically smell the gunpowder—and then she was spinning around a corner, racing for the bridge over Rio de San Zulian, a daring and desperate plan beginning to form in her mind.

  Venice was a maze of passageways with forking alleys, hairpin turns, and darkened corners, a thousand places to hide—but just as many dead ends where a man with a grudge and a gun could corner her without any witnesses. Margo didn’t have the energy to outrun Crossbones, and she couldn’t count on getting far enough ahead to hide somewhere he wouldn’t think to look; but if she could lure him into the proper kind of trap, she just might be able to outwit him.

  The crowd thickened as she reached Piazza San Marco, and Margo plunged through a rowdy stag party, the thug on her tail forced to conserve his ammunition. She ducked low, moving with the flow of foot traffic, and finally burst into the riot of the city’s main public square. Buskers filled the air with music, salesmen tossed around toys that flashed with light—and she immediately found what she was looking for.

  It took three hundred euros, and an argument that ate precious time while Petrenko’s thug entered the piazza, but Margo got what she wanted. The crowd wasn’t dense enough to hide her from Crossbones as she started across the plaza, and when she glanced over her shoulder—locking gazes with the man and seeing recognition spark in his eyes—she felt a chilly combination of satisfaction and terror as she broke into a run.

  The line of people waiting to get into the soaring campanile had tripled since the afternoon, the sunset an irresistible draw for visitors, and a few of them shouted angrily as Margo barreled past them and through the door. Crossbones wasn’t far behind her when she ducked the cordon, slipped into the elevator vestibule, and s
hoved to the front of the line as the bell rang and the doors opened. Irritable murmurs rose around her, and her hair stuck damply to her neck, but she forced a casual smile and grasped the arm of a middle-aged blonde who was just boarding the waiting car.

  “I almost didn’t make it!” Margo exclaimed with a rush of nervous laughter, flashing her ticket stub from earlier in the day for the benefit of the bored elevator operator. “Thanks for waiting!”

  “Vafan?” The woman Margo had chosen for cover gave her an outraged look. “Vem som fan är du?”

  “Please help,” Margo returned in a frantic whisper, eyes on the restless crowd outside the elevator as Crossbones shoved his way into view. “A strange man is following me!”

  His face bright with rage, his hair and clothes still wet from the canal, Crossbones kicked over one of the stanchions in the atrium, plowing clean through a group of tourists as he charged for the open elevator. The woman beside Margo gasped and wheeled on the operator. “Shut the door! Now!”

  Flustered, the man complied, and Margo’s heartbeat throbbed painfully in her jaw as the tattooed thug lunged for the closing door—a half second too late. It slid shut with a subtle thunk, and then the car lifted, the ground zooming away beneath them and taking the angry hit man with it. Margo was hot and cold at once under her clothes, her hands unsteady as she started preparing for the next phase of her ridiculous plan. There were two ways this could go, and she wasn’t sure which of them she preferred.

  If Crossbones followed her up the tower, she knew what to do; it was a risky gambit, which could go wrong more ways than it could go right and might easily end in catastrophe; but if it was a success, she’d be home free.

  However, if the man stayed in the piazza—if he got over his fury and wounded pride just enough to realize that she had nowhere to go but right back down—he could simply remain in the square until the campanile closed, waiting her out. In that event, she’d have no choice but to involve the authorities, to throw her stepfather’s name around and hope they took her seriously; to hope that the resulting media circus (Mad Margo in Desperate Cry for Help!) didn’t make it even harder for her to hide once she got away. Venice was a fishbowl, and if the entire world knew to look for her there, Petrenko would have thousands of naively complicit spies on the ground every single day.