The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers (39 page)

her
. She was in the land of the dead
now. And that’s why he was knocking on her window.
“Darcy?
Darcy!”
The door opened and she screamed. Her hands were still bleeding and she held
them before her to ward him off, her fingers were blades, she would shred him.
This could not be. If only reality shredded so easily.
At first she couldn’t even say his name. She could only look at him as he
bent down before her. She lowered her fingers slowly, cautiously, as if they
really were blades and she feared cutting him. Cutting that beautiful face. His
cheeks were silver in the moonlight and she didn’t remember his
eyes being this round. As if
he
was the one who
should be shocked at this discovery.
“Sweetness,” he said, and her fingers dared to alight on his
shoulders, and they did not pass through him, because he was not a ghost. When
he reached for her she did not wake up in an empty car or in a field or tied up
in a basement. Her eyes were not blindfolded but the tears were doing the same
job.
“Jason.” She squeezed him as they held each other. This was real,
if only for a moment.
God, please, let this moment last. I’ll take the
rest later. But for now, please, just this moment
.
She tightened her grip as he rubbed her back. She said his name again, her
voice choked. Then his fingers were on hers, carefully prying them loose as if
disarming a bomb. He didn’t know that she had already exploded, too many
times. She was shrapnel.
He looked at her bloody wrists and fingers, back into her eyes. “Are you
all right?”
How could he ask her that? Her cry mutated into a laugh.
His thumbs beneath her eyes now, tracing a path for the tears. She opened them
and saw him watching her. “Darcy, we need to go. Come on.”
“I never should have believed him. I can’t believe I did. Of
course.” She kissed him with lips pursed hard. An ecstatic but defensive
kiss. Then he was kissing her cheeks and eyes and forehead and chin.
“I’m so sorry for all this. I’ve been trying my damnedest to
find you.”
Slowly she was containing herself. His face was cut in several places, red
scratches on his cheeks and across his forehead, but it was him.
“Your former associates leave something to be desired.”
“Are they chasing you? You were driving like wildfire.”
“No one’s chasing me.”
“Wish I could say the same.”
“Jason,” said another voice, Whit’s. “People are
turning their lights on. Let’s go.”
Jason coaxed her to her feet. Whit was sitting up in the backseat of an idling
Ford, a rifle in his lap and a fedora pulled unusually low on his head.
“Good to see ya, Darcy.” Whit sounded drunk. “Glad ya hit the
light pole instead of us. Jason’s already gotten into enough accidents
today.”
She didn’t remember getting into the passenger
seat but here she was, Jason at the wheel, the car speedily moving through
town. She was sitting sideways, staring at his profile. He smiled at her
through that side of his mouth.
“It’s okay, Darcy. I’m here. We can explain. It’ll take
a while, but we’ll have a while.”
When? Always there was promised time, in the future. Still, she nodded. He put
an arm around her shoulder and she sank into him.
“Don’t let me fall asleep,” she said, her lips pressed into
his shoulder and barely moving. “Don’t let me. Don’t.”

XXXI.

T
hat summer Weston walked countless
hours through Lincoln City. He wasn’t looking for anything, though at
times he irrationally hoped he might somehow stumble upon some money. A
briefcase of money, like the kind his brothers often ran off with. Or maybe
he’d bump into a man desperate to hire someone. Yes, of course—that
happened all the time, didn’t it? In this mad, chaotic world, where
timing was everything and luck appeared when least expected. So Weston tried
not to expect it. Hell, the walks were just something to do. To get him out of
the house, to see the world and remind himself that he was better off than
some. But funny how we only notice those who are better off than we are. He did
not linger on the people sleeping in broken-down flivvers, and instead fixated
on the shiny Packards driving by. Rich folks were wise enough to refrain from
flaunting their wealth these days, but still, the faintest glimpse was
blinding.
It was early August, six days before his brothers would be put on their cooling
boards in Points North.
Weston hadn’t worked a regular job in three months. He had picked up a
few handyman tasks here and there, and in June had managed to land a
disappointingly brief stint with the CCC carrying water to firemen fighting a
blaze across the Kentucky border. He had been fed three squares a day and lived
in a tent for a week, each night praying that the fire would continue. It
didn’t.
One night he told himself that the next day he would
visit a breadline, that he couldn’t wait any longer. His money was all
but gone and his digestive pains were exacerbated by the hunger, stomach acid
burning the walls of his insides. Yet the next day he avoided the breadline
once again, instead buying a loaf with his few remaining coins, eating a couple
of pieces, and telling himself good news would come. By evening he was telling
himself to go to the breadline the next day, but again he couldn’t bring
himself to do it. Finally, after four days, he went.
The breadline operated out of a formerly abandoned restaurant—a
collection of local churches had pooled together to supply food and volunteers.
The restaurant was on the edge of downtown, uncomfortably close to where Weston
had once worked. Everyone in line was well aware of all the passing businessmen
on lunch breaks and workers shuttling by on their various errands and
deliveries, all the people who were lucky enough to have a paycheck. The people
in motion barely glanced at the unfortunates; when they did, they looked away
immediately. Even the people in line refrained from looking at one another,
heads bowed. Weston saw only the heels of shoes, tattered pant legs. He got a
sunburn on the back of his neck.
After an hour of this, he was given some stew that even had a few chunks of
meat in it. He didn’t talk to anyone as he ate, hurriedly. He’d
been going every day for the past week, and neither the food nor the experience
had improved.
Weston had been threatened with eviction, and each time he returned from his
walks he was surprised to see that his meager furniture was not yet on the
curb. He wondered if the local Unemployed Councils were still active or if
they’d disbanded or been arrested. Maybe the only reason he hadn’t
been evicted yet was that the landlord feared his Fireson connections. That
would be nice, to actually benefit from what had cost him so much. No, the
landlord had probably held off only because he knew he wouldn’t find
anyone else to let the room to. The papers said nearly two-thirds of the men in
Lincoln City were unemployed, which was all the more staggering given how many
of the jobless had left town. At his worst moments Weston wondered if he, too,
should leave, but he knew he couldn’t abandon Ma and June, even if he had
so little to offer.
It would have made financial sense to move in with Ma, but her place was
crowded enough with June and her kids. He didn’t want to add to
their troubles, but he hadn’t been able to buy them
groceries in weeks, and he knew that Ma would soon run out of the money that
Jason and Whit had provided before they went into hiding this summer.
Men on street corners were trading job tips and talking about Dillinger. Two
weeks ago, the Man No Jail Could Hold had been gunned down by federal agents
while leaving a movie theater with his girlfriend. Weston wondered if Agent
Delaney had been one of the shooters. He heard the nighthawks debating whether
Dillinger was still alive—maybe it was a government plot, all public
relations, or maybe they’d just got the wrong guy, because hadn’t
Dillinger been seen robbing a bank in Bloomington last week? The gossips noted
that, with Dillinger (officially) dead, J. Edgar Hoover had now jointly
designated the Firefly Brothers Public Enemy Number One. Their voices glowed
with hometown pride, some of them tossing predictions of when the Firesons
would reach their inevitable demise, others insisting they would never be
killed.
Weston didn’t know what time it was when he made it home—he had
hocked his pocket watch—but he figured it was past midnight. He was
wearing thin cotton pants and a short-sleeved shirt, but still he was sweating
from the heat and humidity—the only things Lincoln City seemed to be
producing these days. It was surprising that people chose to sleep in the
building’s entrance and hallways, given that the motionless air was more
oppressive here than outdoors, but apparently the knowledge of a roof over
their heads was comforting. Weston had to step past a snoring man as he used
his key to open the inner door.
Upstairs, another derelict slept a few feet from Weston’s door.
Weston’s key was in the lock when the waking man slurred, “Spare a
dime, brother?”
“Sorry,” Weston muttered. He was turning the knob when the man rose
to his knees and clamped a hand on his wrist.
“Goddamnit, I said no!” And with a ferocity that surprised him,
Weston pulled his hand free, compressed it into a fist, and swung to knock the
man away.
His punch sounded more like a slap as it was enfolded by one of the man’s
quick hands, inches before it would have struck his nose.
“Nice punch, Wes. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Jason released Weston’s hand, then shook his own to lose the sting.
“Jesus Christ.” He hadn’t seen his
brother in months, and Jason’s disguise was remarkable. He had a full
beard, and in the dim hallway his clothes looked filthy. A thin sheet had been
draped over him, but it had fallen off when he sat up. Weston took his eyes off
his brother’s face long enough to see a rifle barrel poking from beneath
the twisted covering.
Jason put a finger to his lips, then pointed to the door. Weston opened it and
was about to flick the light switch when Jason again intercepted his hand.
“Draw the curtains first.” Weston obeyed.
Jason had looked better in the hallway. His normally well-coiffed hair was
disheveled, shining with dried sweat. He had gray bags under his eyes and the
rest of his skin wasn’t much better, his neck pocked with either mosquito
bites or some terrible rash. His eyes were veined red. He wore a loose-fitting
cotton shirt untucked over gray pantaloons that were fraying at the bottom. He
didn’t smell very good.
Jason dropped the sheet by the door and laid a long, thick rifle on
Weston’s table. Weston noticed from the way Jason’s shirt hung over
his hips that he was also wearing a sidearm. He didn’t seem to be
carrying a briefcase of money, but maybe a bag was strapped to his back.
“Sorry to scare you, Wes. How’ve you been?”
“Fine.” Weston knew he himself looked bad, but he was reeling from
this twisted incarnation of his brother. “Fine.”
Jason checked the space behind Weston’s small wardrobe, then the closet.
“Are you all right?” Weston asked.
“Haven’t been sleeping much. But I’m alive.”
“Where’s Whit?”
“We split up for a bit. I needed to swing by town real quick. He’s
okay, though.”
Weston wondered how much worse Whit, who had never taken as much care with his
appearance as Jason did, could possibly look.
“It’s good to see you, Jason. But it’s pretty risky you
dropping by.”
“You aren’t being watched,” Jason said. That was news to
Weston; though he hadn’t seen Agent Delaney since their confrontation, he
had assumed the agent was still keeping tabs on him. They’d finally
decided Weston wouldn’t bend to them. Or maybe he’d simply bored
them. “Only person watching you the last two days has been me.”
Weston stiffened. He tried to remember what he’d
done for the past two days.
“Had to do it. Just to be sure. Ma’s place is being watched, I
figured, but wasn’t sure about you. Sure now, which works out. Works out
great.”
Who was this person? He was speaking more quickly than Jason Fireson ever had,
with a quieter voice, spitting out the words half formed, the sentences
incomplete. Where was Jason’s grandness, his calmness and confidence?
Weston told him to sit down, but Jason shook his head and said he’d done
plenty of sitting. Weston offered to get him a glass of water, but Jason told
him to stay there.
“How’s the job?”
“They’re still paying me.” If he had been following Weston
for the past two days, he should have known that Weston wasn’t working.
Then again, Jason had never worked a straight job apart from his brief time at
Pop’s store, so he probably didn’t know what a working man’s
routine was. For all Jason knew, Weston had been given a couple of days off.
“Why are you here?”
“Need a favor. It’s a simple one, won’t be any trouble. And
there’s money in it for you, after the fact.”
Something in Weston’s gut dropped a few inches. “Do you have any
now?”
“No.” Jason looked insulted for a moment, then he explained that he
and Whit had knocked over a bank in Wisconsin—the Federal Reserve, Weston
knew from the papers—and had quite a lot to show for it, but the money
was marked. He rambled a moment about money laundering, whatever that was, and
said that in five days he was to meet with a man who would exchange the money
for spendable bills.
Jesus
, Weston thought,
I would settle for marked
money right now. I would settle for crinkled, torn bills, dripping with blood
.
He barely followed Jason’s story and could think only of how hungry he
felt after his walk—a stupid waste of time and precious calories. His
daily trip to the breadline was keeping him alive, but the past few mornings he
had spat up blood. Even after washing his mouth out, it was all he could taste.
“Look, Jason, I’m in a bad spot—me and the whole family. You
don’t know how hard it’s been. If you could just get us
s—”
“Were you listening to me? I passed it all to
the washer. I meet him in five days, and then I’ll have it. Until then, I
have nothing. This is where you come in.”
He explained that one of his confederates, Owney Davis, was due a cut of the
money, but that he didn’t know where Owney was. He did know a guy who
could get in touch with Owney, but he didn’t dare go to him because that
guy, too, was probably being watched.
Weston shook his head, overwhelmed and confused.
“There’s a place up in Karpis called Last Best Chance. Guy that
runs it is Chance McGill. I trust him, but it’s too risky for me to show
myself there. Chance will know how to get a message to Owney for me. I need you
to go there and pass the message.”
“Why me?”
“Because you aren’t being watched. Because everybody I used to
trust is either in jail or dead or talking out the other side of their mouths
to the brass buttons.”
“Just because I wasn’t watched
today
doesn’t
mean—”
“It’s a gamble, but a good one. I’m not going to lam off
without paying Owney his share. I’ve done you plenty of favors, so it
shouldn’t be too much to ask for one in return.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“The hell’s that mean?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“Christ, Wes. I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you now,
but if this works out me and Whit’ll be flush. We’ll get some to
you and Ma. I’m asking you a simple favor, and it isn’t even
illegal.”
Just talking to Jason Fireson was illegal now. A cop or Agent Delaney could
break down the door and Weston would be locked up for aiding and abetting;
he’d read about the mother or aunt of one of Dillinger’s associates
being jailed for no more than this.
“Okay. Let me get a pen and—”
“You don’t write any of this down, Wes—for Christ’s
sake.”
“Then tell me again.”
Jason did, in a slower tone of voice this time, not out of consideration for
his brother but because he seemed to be tiring with each syllable.
“I’ll need to borrow Ma’s car to get there.”
“No. They’ll see you at her place and
might get suspicious enough to follow. There’s a train that’ll get
you there.”
Trains cost money, but Weston didn’t say anything.
After Jason was satisfied that Weston understood the message—for Owney to
meet Jason six days later, at a certain restaurant in Detroit, at five in the
afternoon—Jason seemed to relax, but only slightly.
“Do you want to spend the night?” Weston asked.
Jason seemed to ponder this, or maybe he was falling asleep with his eyes open,
standing up. After a moment, he stirred and said yes.
“Can I get you that water now? I’d like some myself.”
Jason finally sat in one of the wooden chairs. Weston fetched two glasses of water
from the bathroom, and the brothers sat at the table in such an arrangement
that the rifle wasn’t pointed at either of them.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“We’ve been sleeping in cars and empty houses for weeks. Sometimes
barns.” The shadows cast by Jason’s nose and brows, combined with
his bedraggled hair, made him look like something out of a haunted house.
“You don’t sleep too well when there are people looking for
you.”
“I guess I assumed it had always been like that, but it never seemed to
bother you before.”
Jason explained that it had all changed a few months ago, that he never would
have set this complicated chain of events into motion if he’d realized
that the feds would be cracking down like this. Weston wasn’t sure he
believed him.
“Where’s Darcy?”
“Darcy’s fine. She’s waiting for us to get that money. I
can’t be with her now because she might be watched, too. They’d
probably have arrested her by now just to lean on me if her daddy wasn’t
a big shot. That’s how the law works. He doesn’t care a damn for
her, but he still wouldn’t be happy if the cops locked her up. Bad for
business.”