The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers (42 page)

Jason asked Whit if he wanted anything. Whit closed his eyes as he said no. His
leg still didn’t look good, and Jason said so, but Whit said he was
confident he’d live.
Jason left the room and tried to smile at Darcy,
wondering why he felt so shaken.
They drove into town, he in his boater and sunglasses and she in her bandanna.
She told him that maybe she wouldn’t cut her hair after all, and instead
would gather a bandanna collection. They bought sandwiches and a sack of fruit
and some pop, and Darcy chose a pair of sunglasses so unstylish that she
laughed.
Even with the windows down, the afternoon heat felt aggressive, the humidity
surly.
“We should have bought swimsuits,” Darcy said. “We should
soak in the river all day.”
“We don’t need suits for that.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be attention-getting, Mr.
Smith.”
He told her the plan to drive up to the U.P. and gather Whit’s family as
soon as Whit was ready.
“Is it safe to go there?”
“Hopefully. Either way, I owe Whit for helping me find you. Plus, you
know darn well he’d get into trouble without me there to bail him
out.”
“You always have been your brother’s keeper.”
“I just need to watch out for him, is all. He has too much anger in him.
Makes him do stupid things.”
“You’re funny. You always say that about him, as if he’s the
only one.”
“What does that mean?”
She smiled at him to defuse the sting. “You’re as angry as he is, Jason.
You just show it differently.”
They drove in silence for a short while, on a long street that cut through
woods shading them from the sun. Then she asked him to pull over.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just pull over.”
He was grinning at her, probably misinterpreting. Once the car was motionless,
she opened her door and got out. Closing it, she bent down and smiled back at
him through the window, then stood on the running boards. “Continue,
driver.”
“What?”
“Keep going. Drive. But
faster
, please.” She couldn’t
see him from here. Maybe he was shaking his head, maybe he was rolling his
eyes. “Pretend someone’s chasing you.”
“Someone’s always chasing me.”
“Well, pretend they’re right behind you. And gaining.”
For a moment she feared he was going to refuse, but here they were on a
secluded street, in the woods, all the weight of summer pressing down on them.
The Ford’s engine roared. She laughed as it picked up speed. Her dress
ruffled most immodestly, and her bandanna was gone, a memory— not even a
memory but whatever you call a memory that you forget instantly. Something that
didn’t happen. But
this
was happening—yes, definitely, the
wind in her hair and the almost painful glinting of the sun off the
Ford’s roof and the familiar tension against her finger bones. She
remembered this. Along the tops of her ears, where the kidnappers’
goggles had once chafed, she could feel the desperate grip of her sunglasses,
barely holding on as the Ford raced faster still. Pebbles biting into her
ankles, the unexpected lurch of a pothole. She thought she heard Jason yell
something. Calling her crazy, most likely. Or saying he loved her. She yelled,
gleefully, triumphantly, her reckless voice reclaiming her place in the world.
The Ford coasted for a moment, then began to slow. She laughed again, patting
the hot roof of the car as if congratulating her prized stallion.
When it stopped, she bent over and peeked inside.
“Still there?” she asked.
He smiled. He seemed to know what she was asking. “Yeah, sweetness,
I’m still here.”

XXXIII.

I
t wasn’t a sound that woke Jason
that night but the memory of a sound.
Beside him Darcy was breathing heavily. A sick feeling was emanating from his
stomach to his fingers, a helpless sort of terror. He hadn’t woken up
from something, he’d woken up
to
something.
He got up and quietly put on his pants. He was already wearing his undershirt,
of course, as he couldn’t let Darcy see the fading bullet wounds in his
back. He opened the door and walked into the hallway, then into Whit’s
room. His eyes were used to the dark and he saw Whit on the bed, sprawled on
his back. For once he wasn’t snoring.
“Whit,” Jason said, just above a whisper. No response, so he
repeated it. By the door was a small table with a lamp, and he pulled its cord.
Whit didn’t pull his gat on Jason this time. Once had been more than
enough. He opened his eyes and sat up, calmly, as if he’d been expecting
Jason.
“I remember,” Jason said.
Whit leaned against the wall. He wore only boxer shorts, and he looked so
pathetic with the one red leg and the other dark, hairy one. “Yeah. Me,
too.”
Jason closed the door behind him. “When did you—?”
“Just this morning,” Whit said. “Or maybe I’ve known
for a while, too, and just didn’t want to believe it. Or didn’t
really understand.”
Jason sat on the edge of the bed. They were talking
around it without talking about it, he knew, the way brothers talk about
what’s important. All brothers, or just his?
He stared at the wall, the memories unspooling no matter how badly he wanted
them to disappear.
God, let it not have happened that way
.

This is what they remembered:
Two weeks earlier, one day before they would be killed in Points North, they
had received their clean money from the launderer. The euphoria of their score
had registered immediately, as they realized that the hellish summer of living
destitute was finally over. They were still notorious, Public Enemy Number One,
but the irrefutable fact of the money was like a surge of adrenaline. Finally
they could escape someplace, start over, live well, all those warm phrases
whose full meaning they didn’t entirely understand but were quite ready
to learn. They checked into one of Detroit’s finest hotels, paying in
advance for two extra nights they wouldn’t need, confident that in their
beards they were unrecognizable. In their rooms they showered and scrubbed for
thirty minutes each, then splurged at a barbershop, buying the shave and hot
towels and haircut and shampoo—usually a weekly ritual for Jason but one he
hadn’t dared enjoy since the Federal Reserve job. They had their money
now, and with it invincibility. Then, on to the haberdasher’s. Even Whit
was drunk with freedom, and despite never much caring for clothes he bought
duds nearly as expensive as Jason’s. They ate at a French restaurant and
drank expensive wine and slept late the next morning.
They stayed in their hotel room all that day, ordering room service and waiting
out the hours until their meeting with Owney. Finally, as five o’clock
approached, they left the hotel, clean-shaven, wearing new suits, and carrying
one briefcase full of weapons and one full of dollars. But as they drove to the
restaurant where they were supposed to meet Owney something felt wrong. Maybe
Jason was paranoid after so many past near-arrests, but maybe not: too many men
were chatting on the sidewalk or waiting for a bus or sitting in parked cars.
The brothers drove past the restaurant twice, Thompsons on their laps and
pistols in their shoulder
holsters. Whit
agreed—this was all wrong. Their secret meeting with Owney had become a
widely advertised event.
Jason headed for the highway, and for three blocks they were followed by a pair
of blue Packards, until Jason pulled a U and ran a red. Then sirens were placed
atop the Packards and all pretense was lost. Jason made a few more maneuvers
that would have made old Jake Dimes proud, and after five frantic minutes that
felt like fifty the brothers lost their tails and got on the highway.
“You think somebody recognized us?” Whit had asked as they drove
west. “Maybe we shouldn’t have cleaned up after all.”
“No, the cops were there before we were. They knew we were coming.”
“So Owney ratted us.”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet.”
“Then who else? Who else knew we were meeting him?”
As usual, Jason had been the one handling the advance planning. He made the
connection but couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Jesus Christ
. He
hadn’t even considered the possibility when he’d gone out to
Weston’s apartment. Never. He felt sick to his stomach and he tightened
his hands on the wheel, taking a deep breath to control himself. He
didn’t want Whit to notice or ask what was wrong. He couldn’t say
it out loud. He swallowed and took another breath.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Once they were out of town, he stuck to the speed limit and Whit strained his
neck facing backward for the next half hour, anxiously keeping watch. The
Firefly Brothers were in a car that the Detroit cops—or had it been
feds?—had surely spotted, so that needed to be changed. They took an exit
and traded cars, swiping a red Terraplane from a train depot and affixing to it
one of the many tags they were carrying.
They drove back roads through Michigan and into the Indiana countryside, headed
toward the designated meeting place with the girls, hoping that rendezvous
wasn’t blown as well. Whit removed a flask from his pocket and took a few
healthy pulls.
At a small joint off the highway the Firefly Brothers bought two chicken
dinners, eating in the car as they continued west. The steering wheel was slick
with grease beneath Jason’s fingers and he drove with the windows down,
yet still the car managed to stink of fried buttermilk and dark meat.
They were less than ten miles from the pickup point
when Jason passed a motel and saw a police car parked across the street. A few
miles later, another motel and another police watchman. A third cop passed them
going the other way.
“We’re getting damn close and there are too many cops
around,” Jason said.
“You’re just worried. It doesn’t mean anything.” Whit
took another snort from his flask.
“I say it does. I say the girls are being watched, or at least the cops
know enough to be near every motel in this county.”
“Jason, we’re so close—”
“Which is why I don’t want to ruin it here.” He was
exhausted—the panic from the chase in Detroit had long faded, and his
brain and his body were numbed by the long hours on the road. He wished he
could think more clearly. But all he could think about was Weston.
“We’re not picking them up tonight.”
“Jason—”
“Not till we’ve had a chance to think it through. And you’ll
be thinking better when you aren’t drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. You’re just worried, and—”
“Of course I’m worried. You should be, too.”
“So what do we do, pick another barn to sleep in?”
Jason told his brother to hide out of view. Whit, cursing, slumped in his seat.
Jason headed south, away from the motel. After thirty minutes without seeing
cops, he pulled to a stop in front of a foreclosure sign. It sat at the edge of
a long, untended yard on the other side of which was a secluded farmhouse. He
could barely make out its silhouette in the night, so he pulled into the drive
and let the headlights bring it out. White paint was flaking from the front of
the building. No lamps were on, and all the windows were shut despite the heat.
No other structures were in view.
“Looks vacant,” Jason said.
“It better be. Or an angry farmer’s going to come out with a
shotgun thinking we’re here to repossess.”
They had made such a mistake once before, a couple of months ago, so Jason
cautiously scanned the property as he inched up the drive, looking
for signs of habitation. He didn’t see any as he
stopped in front of a small barn. Whit, stretching his neck after hiding so
long beneath the dash, got out of the car, leaving the Thompson on his seat but
holding his right hand in his jacket. He opened the barn door, stuck his head
in, then emerged to give his brother a thumbs-up. Jason parked in the barn and
they took out their briefcases of money and weapons, shutting the door.
Jason shined a flashlight into the kitchen, seeing enough dust and cobwebs to
make him conclude, “We’re safe.”
They broke in easily, the place moldy and dank. The electricity was off, as was
the water. The previous owners had employed newspapers as wallpaper in the
first-floor hallway and in some of the rooms. Summer humidity had caused the
ink on many of the pages to blur and run, rendering photographs ghostlike.
Faces like skulls stared eyelessly at Jason. He found himself reading some
headlines and was startled by the words “Firefly Brothers” in one
of them, smudged but legible. He followed Whit into a small room whose window
afforded a view of the road. Jason watched it for a solid minute and saw not a
single vehicle pass—even by day it probably saw little traffic.
“Okay,” Whit said. “Now what?”
Jason rested one of the Thompsons on a small table and lowered the satchel of
guns to the floor beside it. There was nothing to sit on, so he leaned against
the wall, too bothered to realize he was getting ink on his new suit. Whit had
placed two lanterns on the floor and the light was orange and flickering, the
flames refracted through the dirty glass.
“I just need to think,” Jason said.
Whit paced the room and took another snort from his flask. Apparently he had
decided that if he wouldn’t be celebrating with Veronica tonight,
he’d still do some goddamn celebrating. It grated on Jason to see Whit
making himself sloppy.
Jason was motionless as he thought about what had happened. He tried to tell
himself that it had been Chance, or maybe Owney, who had ratted them out to the
cops.
Please
, he thought,
let it have been one of those two
. But
he knew in his heart it was neither of them. He still felt sick, and when Whit
proposed finding a telephone to call the girls’ motel he snapped.
“Could you just give me a minute to think? Do I
always have to do the thinking for this family? Jesus. I have to cover the
angles and keep you out of trouble all at once. Could I at least have some
quiet to figure this out?”
“That’s out of line.”
The elder brother sighed and leaned his palms onto the table, staring at the
floor.
“I’ve pulled my weight, Jason. Don’t take it out on me just
because things aren’t going right.”
“You’re supposed to be keeping your eye on the road.”
Whit bent down to take another Thompson out of the satchel. Then he walked back
to the windows, using the gun barrel to part the curtains.
The ceiling creaked. They both looked at it, but then relaxed, figuring it was
just an old floor’s sigh. They hadn’t actually checked the
upstairs, but surely no one was there.
After a long pause, Whit spoke in a quieter tone. “There’s
something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Go ahead.”
Whit paused. “How come you never told Darcy about Pop?”
“Never told her what about Pop?”
“About him doing time. About him being in prison when he died.”
“Who says I didn’t?”
“I mentioned it to her in Fond du Lac and it was the first she’d
heard of it. We both thought that was kind of strange.”
Jason felt both perplexed and annoyed that Whit was bringing this up. “We
never happened upon the subject.”
“How could you not?”
“I guess I’m not inclined to wear every past injury like a badge of
honor the way you do.”
“It’s almost like you were trying to hide something.”
“Maybe I was. Can we leave it at that?”
Whit was watching him coolly, and Jason could feel his every word and gesture
being analyzed.
“No, we can’t. Every time Pop comes up, you get this way. You got
so damned angry when I mentioned him to that journalist. For a while I
couldn’t understand why, but now I think I get it.”
“Get what?”
Whit smiled emptily, then looked out the dark window. “You like to say
most of the stories about us aren’t true. Okay, maybe so. I can vouch for
a lot of them being wrong. And then there’s a few about you that I assume
are lies, too, but sometimes I get to wondering.” Eyes back to Jason.
“You’ve heard the story about you and Garrett Jones, right?”
Jason was still leaning forward, but now he gripped the table tightly.
“What are you getting at?”
Whit waited a beat. “Did you do it, Jason? Did Pop get pinned for
something
you
did?”
Jason raised himself to his full height. “Thinking’s never been
your strong suit, but I want you to think very, very hard about what
you’re—”
“I’ve been thinking about it for
weeks.”
Whit stepped
forward. “I didn’t want to admit it, but your story never quite
added up, and
that’s
why the jury convicted. I guess I was too
much the little brother, following after you and wagging my tail like an idiot.
Wasting all my energy blaming the wrong people for what happened.”
“Well, congratulations, Whit. You’re half right. You half figured
something out. Because, yes, something about that story didn’t add up,
and yes, Jones wasn’t a suicide like you always hoped he was—he was
a murder. Cold-blooded murder.”
They stared at each other, motionless.
“You can’t blame me or anyone else for what Pop did,” Jason
said. “Because I was there. I was at home, sitting in the dining room,
eating some pie, when he walked in all covered in blood.”
Whit looked so helpless in that one instant, Jason almost wanted to hug him.
What was it like to go through life with such illusions? Jason was tired of the
effort he’d expended to help Whit believe in them, setting up all those
mirrors and conjuring the smoke. It was amazing what people could believe.
“You’re lying,” Whit said.
“I’m the one who told him to take off his clothes and give them to
me so I could burn them at the dump. I’m the one who made up the alibi
for him and told him what to say. Pop was just stunned. I’ve never seen
anything like it. And after all we’ve done together, Whit, I’ve
still never seen anything like it.”
Pop’s clothes had been wet with the stuff,
soaked through to his undershirt. The hair on his arms. Jason had coaxed him
into the shower— all this without waking anyone—then had taken
Pop’s clothes and gloves. At least he’d been wearing gloves. But he
didn’t have the gun. Where was the gun? Pop said he’d left it
there. Where, on the desk, on the floor? Could it look like a suicide? How
close had he been standing? Had anyone else been at Jones’s house? The
gun wasn’t registered, was it? Jason’s experience at averting
disasters on his bootlegging routes lent him a strange calmness. Only later,
alone in his car, would he break down at the enormity of it all. Pop, though,
was a man sliced in half, his sentences dropping in pieces, disjointed verbs
and nouns and long stretches of silence, or sobbing. He had only partial
answers, fragments of memories. He’d been standing close to Jones, he
said. The gun might be on the desk, but maybe the stairs. No one else had been
home. It had been quiet. No, the gun was on the desk, definitely. Pop reeked of
booze.
“You’re lying,” Whit said again. His eyes were wet.
“I wish I was. It’s so much easier, believe me.”
Jason had stuffed Pop’s clothes into a bag. Then he saw that his own
hands had become streaked with blood, so he washed them in the kitchen sink,
dried them on a dishrag. There was blood on the rag now, too, and some on his
own shirt, a new one. And so he had added them to the bag of things to be
burned.
Pop’s car was filthy—blood on the steering wheel and the gearshift,
blood even on the seat. Had he really shot Jones only once? Jason cleaned the
car as quickly and quietly as he could, cursing the fact that Pop’s
garage was full of junk and he had to do this in the driveway. Then he had
driven to the dump with matches and some gasoline.