The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers (2 page)

“Officer,” Jason greeted the cop,
“we’d like to report a crime. Pants theft. We were hoping we could
borrow some clothes while you investigated the crime for us.”
If the cop’s eyes had been wide at the surprise attack, they were wider
still at the sight before him. His mouth dropped open and the color was
draining from his face.
“Uh-oh,” Jason said to Whit. “Better lean him against the
wall here, quick.”
Whit obeyed, and the cop slumped to his knees. His eyes were so wide it
didn’t seem possible they could widen further, but they did. Then he
gagged and vomited. The brothers stepped back.
“Actually, Whit,” Jason said as he viewed the mess,
“he’s more your size. You can have his clothes.”
Whit stepped forward. He grabbed the cop’s collar and pressed his back
against the locker.
The cop was thin, about Whit’s size minus a couple of inches. Jason
relieved him of his sidearm—a Colt .38 revolver—and checked that it
was loaded. He would have put it in his pocket if he’d had any.
The cop opened his eyes, keeping them aimed at the floor.
“How …? How could—”
Whit dangled the scalpel into the officer’s view, nearly trimming his
officious mustache. “Find us some clothes.”
The cop’s eyes remained focused on the ground as he gingerly led the
brothers to his locker, which his shaking fingers allowed him to open after two
failed attempts. In the locker were a pair of trousers, a white cotton shirt,
and a pair of shoes Whit could already tell were too big.
Jason took a wallet from the cop’s pants pocket. A quick peek revealed a
five-dollar bill and two singles, which Jason slid out. “We’ll use
this to fund our investigation.”
Then, like a slug in the gut, Jason remembered how much money had been in their
possession when they’d been driving to meet Owney Davis.
Jesus Christ
,
he thought. That money was likely still in this building, but surrounded by
cops, not all of whom would necessarily pass out at the mere sight of the
Firefly Brothers.
“Have a seat, Officer,” he said, turning the cop so his back was
against the lockers. The man slid down slowly. As Whit dressed, Jason kept the
revolver trained on the cop’s chest, continuing to
hold the scalpel in his other hand, the seven dollars wrapped around its
handle.
“Look at me,” Jason said, and the cop reluctantly complied.
“Point me to the locker of someone my size, and be quick about it.”
The cop called a number and Jason made sure there wasn’t a round in the
Colt’s chamber before hacking at the lock with the gun handle.
“Making a racket,” Whit chided him, standing above the cop with his
scalpel ready.
Soon Jason was clothed, but barefoot—there were no shoes in the locker.
Loudly breaking into another locker would be too risky, so he would have to go
unshod.
“Give us your keys,” Whit said to the cop, who reached into his
pocket and obeyed. “Which is your car?”
“Green Pontiac, out back. Tag number 639578.”
Whit asked where the armory was, but as the cop told them Jason shook his
head—too risky. They’d have to make do with the one Colt.
“Why is it so quiet in here?” Whit asked.
“Everybody is out front with the reporters. Announcing your …
apprehension.”
“And were you a part of that apprehension, Officer?” Jason asked.
“No, no, I was away, at my in-laws’.” His voice slid into a
more panicked tone. “I had no idea until I showed up this afternoon. I
wouldn’t have gotten involved anyway—I think what you boys have
been doing is just grea—”
“What exactly happened to us?” Jason cut him off.
The cop’s eyes slowly drifted up to Jason. “You were shot.”
“No kidding. But how, and when?”
“And who did it?” Whit added.
“And where’d they put our money?”
“You were shot,” the cop repeated, his voice hollow. “You
were lying there. I touched you. You were so cold. Doctor said … doctor
said you were dead.”
“It’s amazing what people can get wrong these days,” Jason
said.
“But how did they get that wrong?” Whit asked the cop. “What
did they really do to us?”
“And where’d they put our money?”
“You were both so cold.” A line of sweat
bulleted down his cheek. “And stiff. Chief even pretended to shake
Whit’s hand. But it wouldn’t bend.”
Whit flexed the fingers of his left hand. He made a fist and the tendons popped
against one another.
The cop moaned and lowered his head.
“Oh Christ, not again,” Jason said. But the cop simply slumped
over, his limbs loosening like a released marionette’s. Jason dropped his
scalpel and bent down, putting his hand behind the man’s unconscious head
and gently lowering it to the floor.
The brothers stood beside each other in their stolen clothes. Something needed
to be said. But neither had any idea what that might be.
Footsteps from above jarred them, and what had been a faint murmuring from the
other side of the building suddenly grew louder. Laughter, or applause. They
were having a hell of a time out front. And there were a lot of them. Much as
it pained Jason, they would have to leave their money behind. You can’t
take it with you, he thought.
Jason fed a round into the Colt’s chamber and stepped into the empty
hallway, checking both directions. Whit followed him to the exterior door.
Jason lifted the latch and slid the bolt, then nodded at his brother.
The door wasn’t as heavy as it had seemed and when Jason threw it open it
slammed into a brick wall. The side of the police station extended twenty
yards, and before them, above the lot in which a dozen cars were huddled, the
redbrick backs of storefronts rose three storys, fire escapes switchbacking
past windows laid out with perfect symmetry. All the windows were dark, like
the starless sky above.
Skeletal tree branches spiderwebbed overhead. Midsummer, and the tree was dead.
The leafy branches of neighboring elms swayed in the breeze but this one stayed
motionless, forlorn.
They scanned the tags until they found the car. Jason handed Whit the Colt and
opened the driver’s door.
He started the car and pulled out of the lot, headlights illuminating a badly
paved road. From here they could see along the side of the station, and it was
clear there was quite a gathering out front. The side street and the main
avenue were choked with parked cars, and through some of the windows he could
see the flashes of news cameras. The room appeared full of men, dark shoulders
and hatted heads vibrating with laughter and proclamations.
“Somebody in that room,” Whit said, unable
to finish. He tried again. “Somebody in that room—”
“Well, congratulations to them. Poor saps can feel like heroes for a few
hours at least.”
He turned left, putting the station in his rearview. The street soon
intersected with the town’s main drag.
“Recognize anything?” he asked.
“No.”
Jason tapped the top of the wheel. Driving without a git to guide them felt risky,
amateurish. Main Street was dark, the theater marquee unlit and the storefronts
displaying nothing but reflections of the Pontiac’s headlights. He
thought he’d been through Points North once—stopped for lunch,
maybe, or gasoline—but he’d seen so many Main Streets in so many
states that he often confused them.
They continued at a calm twenty-five miles an hour. Eventually the tightly
packed buildings were replaced by the widely spaced front yards of darkened
houses. Jason let his foot fall heavier on the accelerator.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Thirsty?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. Christ, this is strange.”
A hole tore in the cloud cover and there were the stars, informing Jason that
he was headed north. He soon passed a sign for the state highway. Ordinarily
they would stick to the country roads, but Jason figured there would be no
roadblocks if the police thought the Firefly Brothers had already been
apprehended.
“Why couldn’t this have happened to Pop?” Whit asked.
Jason swallowed, driving even faster now. “I was thinking the same
thing.”
The highway took them through farmland so flat and featureless it was as though
they were crossing a black, still sea. Jason remembered an old yegg from prison
telling stories about the Florida Keys and how he’d planned to retire
there after one last job, remembered the man’s stories of a road cutting
through long islands where the emerald ocean glittered on either
side. If that was a paradise on earth, then Jason felt he
was navigating its opposite. He wished it was day, wished there was something
to look at, wished he had someone to talk to other than his taciturn brother,
who had been struck mute since leaving Points North. He wished Darcy were here;
one of the many questions throwing stones in his mind was where she was. Hell,
what day was today? How long was the black hole of memory he was carrying
inside him?
Jason could feel a wind chopping at the side of the Pontiac. Clouds had
reclaimed the sky. He had been driving for two hours when he realized they were
low on gasoline. Didn’t anyone in this damned country keep his tank full?
Jason had driven an untold number of stolen cars, sometimes just for a few
miles and sometimes for days-long escapes, yet he could count the number of
full or even half-full tanks on one hand. And then there were the cars that
broke down inexplicably, or stalled out at stop signs, or dropped their
fenders, or had no water in their radiators, or had their wheels loosen on
rough roads and slide into ditches. If only his fellow Americans would keep
better care of their automobiles.
The brothers had decided their destination was Lincoln City, Ohio, and they had
many hours to go. Jason pulled off the highway after passing a hand-lettered
sign for a filling station in the town of Landon, Indiana.
“Jesus,” Whit said suddenly.
“Jesus Christ!”
“What?”
“Jason! We’re goddamn dead!”
“Keep yourself together.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
Jason pulled onto the side of the road. He turned to face his brother.
“I don’t know, but I know that losing our heads isn’t going
to help things.”
Whit opened his door and stumbled out.
“Where are you going?” Jason opened his own door, following. Whit
was pacing in quick strides on the dry grass, running his hands through his
hair.
“Whit. Get in the car. All I know is that until the news spreads, most
cops still think we’re on the prowl, so if anyone ID’s us
we’re in for a gunfight.”
“A gunfight? Who cares? What’ll they do, kill us again?” Whit
stopped
moving, his hands on his hips. Behind him
cornstalks gossiped in the wind.
“What do you think would happen if I shot myself right here?” Whit
took the pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at his chest.
“I’d have to clean up one of your messes, as usual.” Jason
sighed. “C’mon, brother. It’s late. We need to get some
gasoline while we can.”
Whit was on the verge of tears. “Whit,” Jason said, stripping the
impatience from his voice. “Put the gun in your pocket and sit down.
Let’s just bandage ourselves up and sit for a while. All right?”
Whit finally obeyed. Jason reached into the Pontiac and pulled the gauze and
dressing out of the glove compartment, then stepped aside so his brother could
sit. No cars passed.
Whit unbuttoned his shirt as Jason unwound some gauze. He dared to glance at
his brother’s chest; fortunately, he could barely see the bullet hole in
the dark, could pretend it was just a large bruise. He placed the gauze against
it. “Hold this here,” he said, and after Whit’s fingers
replaced his he taped down its edges. “All right.”
Then Jason unbuttoned his own shirt, and this time Whit taped the makeshift
bandages onto his brother’s chest. The wounds weren’t bleeding and
didn’t hurt at all, so the bandages served no purpose other than to
remove these monstrous questions from view.
“Good as new,” Jason said, patting his brother on the shoulder.
Then he saw headlights, far away but approaching.
“C’mon, we have to get going,” Jason said.
They drove another half mile to the filling station, a tiny glimmer of
financial life beside a shuttered general store and a collapsed barn.
“Lean your head to the side like you’re sleeping,” Jason
said. “I don’t want you talking to anyone right now.”
Whit did as he was told, grumbling something his brother couldn’t hear. A
moment later, a gangly teenager in overalls yawned as he walked toward the
Pontiac.
“Evenin’,” Jason said after shutting off the engine.
“I’d like two dollars’ worth, please.”
“All righty.” After the kid grabbed the spigot and fastened it to
the Pontiac, he asked if they’d heard the news.
“What news is that?”
“They killed the Firefly Brothers, late last
night.”
“That right?”
“S’all over the radio. Local boys did it, not the feds. Caught
’em at some farmhouse in Points North. Shot ’em up real good.
Brothers took a cop with ’em, though.”
“How ’bout that.” Jason looked down at the pavement.
“Radio say if they killed the brothers’ girls, too?”
The kid thought for a moment. “I don’t remember. That’d be a
shame, though,” and he offered a gawky grin. “They’re real
lookers.”
“They certainly are.”
“Can’t believe they killed the Firefly Brothers, though. Gonna cost
me a two-dollar bet to my own brother—I said they’d never be
caught.”
“They’re always caught eventually. Sorry to hear about your two
bucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
They were silent as the tap clicked every few seconds. The smell of gasoline
seeped through Jason’s window.
“Two dollars’ worth,” the kid said, placing the handle back
on the latch.
Jason handed the kid a five with his un-inked hand and pocketed the change.
Then he looked the kid in the eye and extended his hand again. “And
here’s your two bucks.”
“Huh?”
“For losing your bet. Pay this to your brother.”
The kid looked at him strangely. “That’s kind of you, sir, but
I’ll be all right.”
“I don’t like hearing about young lads already in debt. Take it and
pay your brother.”
The kid seemed distracted by the way the bills hung in Jason’s perfectly
still hand. Then he was looking at Jason again, his eyes spotlights.
Jason’s lips curved into the barest smile.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” Jason turned the ignition.
“Night.”
After they’d pulled onto the road, Whit looked up. “Did the kid
look funny at all?”