The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers: A Novel

by Thomas Mullen

  “Excuse me?” But he’d heard Jason just fine.

  “What would you say are the odds couple number thirty-seven is going to finish as high as the top three?” The program had promised two hundred and fifty dollars to the winning couple, seventy-five for second place, thirty for third.

  “I don’t care for your line of questioning.”

  “No offense to you or your associates meant, but I have business with the taller half of number thirty-seven.”

  “He owe you money?”

  “He owes me time, and I’m tired of spending it watching him dance. He’s a lousy dancer.”

  “They all are after twelve days.”

  “What I’m saying is, I wonder if you might be able to get them disqualified so I can conduct my business with him and get out of here. But I’d feel kind of bad if doing that would keep him from winning.”

  The gorilla folded his arms. People seemed to be doing that to Jason today. “Why would I want to get him disqualified?”

  Jason reached into his pocket and discreetly took out the billfold, slipping out two singles. “My time is worth money to me.”

  “Nuts to you.”

  “Christ, pal, we both know you’re going to disqualify them eventually. If you want to get something extra for it, great. If not, I’ll go take my seat and grab a nap.”

  He made to return the bills to his pocket, but the gorilla extended his hand. They shook, and the money was in the man’s pocket. “Dangle a minute,” he said.

  Jason walked back to the bleachers, sitting in the front row this time. From here he could smell the dancers’ perfume and cologne, as it had likely been slathered on during breaks to cover up body odor. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and watched as the gorilla wandered through the careening dancers, finally tapping the judge on the shoulder. The two retreated to a corner and exchanged words, then the gorilla returned to his station. He briefly made eye contact with Jason, looking away without a nod.

  And then it happened, just as whirling Charlestons were devolving into what might have been Lindy hops as a new song began: the judge tore the number from Alice’s back. It was the first disqualification Jason had witnessed, and even though he was the only spectator who had known it was coming, it was still shocking. He was willing to bet the judge always tore off the woman’s number; the thin sheet of paper was all that came off, but the suddenness and the violence of the act must have felt tantamount to having her dress ripped off. The girl froze in place, even as Whit, oblivious Whit, continued to move. The connection between the two was severed. Whit had finally begun to show some recognition of their new reality when she collapsed.

  Spectators were laughing and cheering. Jason heard someone say, “I knew she’d faint when it happened. She had that look.”

  Jason turned back to the crowd for a moment and saw people exchanging coins.

  Whit was arguing with the judge; Jason could make out only a few words. But the judge moved on to assess the other dancers now, and Whit’s burst of panic and fury fled instantly, as if he were waking from a dream. He slowly turned back to his fallen companion and reached for her. She was conscious after all, clasping his hands as she staggered to her feet.

  “Let’s hear it for couple number thirty-seven, William and Alice!” The emcee was downright ebullient. “They did a great job these two hundred and seventy-two hours! We’ll especially miss Alice’s performances in the wind sprints, won’t we, folks?”

  Cheering, jeering—it was hard to tell the difference, and Jason had been there for only an hour. He couldn’t imagine how it must sound to Whit and Alice. The other dancers continued their spastic movements, opening a wide circle around the newest losers. But they betrayed little awareness of the fact that their odds had just improved. They barely blinked.

  Couple No. 37 had made it a few paces toward the backstage curtain when she started hitting him. Her hands weren’t closed into fists, but it clearly didn’t take much to harm a man who’d been dancing for twelve days. Whit raised his arms into a protective position. The cheering intensified.

  For a moment Jason worried that Whit would fight back, take a swing at her. It wasn’t like his brother to just take a beating like this, and it broke Jason’s heart to see Whit meekly endure the assault. Then Alice collapsed again. Whit caught her and whispered something into her ear.

  Jason moved before they could disappear backstage. A young man, thin as a hiccup, was parting the curtain for doomed couple No. 37 as Jason approached.

  “Whit,” Jason said. The sound made Whit jump.

  “Oh. Hello.” He sounded very, very tired.

  “Tough break. I was just starting to think you might pull it off, too.”

  “How—”Whit took a breath. The two of them smelled even worse up close. “How long have you been here?”

  Alice gazed in Jason’s direction with what he first thought was hostility but was probably just exhaustion, and now she shifted her gaze to Whit, whom she was still leaning against. “Who’s he?”

  “I’m his old pal Sonny. And you must be The Other Woman.”

  She had the type of pale skin that probably yielded freckles in the summer but was now waxy from her days indoors. And surely her hair wasn’t supposed to look like that.

  “What?”

  Whit eyed him. “Can this wait, Jason?”

  The use of his real name galled him. “No, it can’t.” He reached into his pocket and slipped something from the billfold. He reached out to Alice. “Here, sweetness, buy yourself some new feet.”

  Her lips curled for the better hurling of insults until she noticed the denomination. She swallowed her curse and took the money.

  “Now grab hold of something solid, miss. I need to borrow your partner for a bit.” Jason took his brother by the arm and pulled. Whit looked displeased yet came along so freely that it was clear there was no longer any connection between his mind and his body. Let alone any connection between him and Alice, who had collapsed into a metal chair, her head slumped.

  It was dark outside and small packs of young people were scattered in the parking lot, smoking and telling jokes. Jason spied a flask being passed around, which reminded him that he wanted a sip from his own, but not while he was dragging Whit across the now crowded lot. Someone had even parked a sedan on a narrow strip of grass between Jason’s car and the exit, but it wasn’t quite blocking his way out.

  “Lovely girl,” Jason remarked. “She always smell like that?”

  Whit shook off Jason’s hand and stopped a few paces in front of the latest in Jason’s long line of automobiles, a black Plymouth. “What do you want?”

  “Call me crazy, but I think Veronica’s more of a looker than that one.”

  “Alice isn’t my girl.” Whit exhaled deeply with each phrase, like a panting dog trying to master speech. “We just thought … the dance thing might work. But we’re not that way.”

  “Still, you removed your wedding band, I see. Or did you ever have one?”

  “Hocked it weeks ago.” He had no doubt bought the thing with money Jason had given him. “Ronny knew about it. You can’t eat gold.”

  “Speaking of which, how do you eat if you’re dancing all day? I’ve been wondering.”

  “They feed you. Eight times a day. Eggs, oatmeal. Oranges. Set up little tables next to you. So you can keep your feet moving. Haven’t eaten that well in months.” He looked down at himself, then back at Jason. “Now.” Pant. “What do you want?”

  “This isn’t about wanting, Whit. I did not want to spend my time looking for a deadbeat that left his family high and dry.”

  “Don’t lecture me about leaving town, Jason. I haven’t seen you around much lately.”

  Jason poked a finger in Whit’s chest. Any harder and Whit would have fallen on his back. “You’re talking to the guy who just paid for the roof over your kid’s head for the next three months.”

  “So I’m supposed to thank you, that it? Or just admire you from a distance, lik
e everyone else?”

  Jason didn’t reply.

  “You have your way of helping family,” Whit said, “and I have mine.”

  “Explain to me how this is helping.”

  “I was going to send them money.” Pant. “Once I made some.”

  “That’s not how it looks to Veronica.”

  Whit stared at him for a moment, then let his eyes wander over to the packs of parking-lot hooligans. “You don’t get it, do you? That’s some world you live in. But you can’t even see.”

  “What can’t I see?”

  “They’re better off without me.”

  “They didn’t look so well off this morning.”

  Whit opened his arms. “Do you know what I made in the last three months before I left? Nothing. At least without me around they have a better shot at getting on the government rolls.”

  “So hide in the closet if the government people come by to check.”

  “Old buddy of Uncle Joe’s said I could get a job here. But it didn’t work out. Think I’ll try Detroit next.”

  “Why do you even need to bum around for work after I gave you that money?”

  “Your money doesn’t stretch forever.”

  “Well, it should have stretched enough for you to put your family someplace better than that rathole of an apartment. What did you do, drink the money away? Gamble it?”

  Whit scowled. “I don’t do that stuff.”

  “Then help me with the math.”

  “Times are tough, Jason. I had some buddies in worse shape than me, some guys I used to work with—”

  Jason shook his head and took a moment to contain his rage. “That dough was for you, Whit, you and your family. Not for some other stiff or a friend of a friend or some fellow traveler.”

  “We’re all in this together.”

  “Jesus Christ, I’m not here to support all of Ohio. Give your red slogans a rest.”

  “I had no right to hold on to that money and not help folks who were hungry. My obligation is to my fellow man, Jason, even if you don’t like to—”

  “Your obligation is to your own family. You’re a father and a husband now. Things change.”

  “Yeah. Everything’s changed, all right.”

  They stood silently for a moment.

  “You really want to help me?” Whit asked. “And my baby, and Ronny? Let me join your gang. I’m a good shot, and I can drive as well as—”

  Jason slapped him. He had held back, but even that slap was enough to knock a dance marathoner to the ground. Conversations around the lot stopped.

  Though Jason was more powerfully built than his brother, Whit had always let sheer desire make up for any physical shortcoming when the time came to fight. But the litany of his lost months, let alone the past twelve days, had softened his muscles and stripped him of his will. Whoever said what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, Jason thought, was a very wishful thinker indeed.

  “Sorry,” he said as he helped his brother up. “But I told you about that.”

  “You don’t understand.” Whit wasn’t bleeding, but only because all his blood was in his feet. “You have no idea.”

  “You have no idea.” Jason struggled to keep his voice down. “You haven’t boxed yourself into a corner like I have. You still have options, Whit, possibilities. I’m not going to have you making the same mistakes I did, especially when you’ve got a wife and a kid to look after.” He stopped himself and pointed to the Plymouth. “I don’t have time to explain this to you. Now get in before I hog-tie you to the roof.”

  Jason saw that his brother’s eyes were wet.

  Whit looked away, ashamed. “You saw them today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How … How are they?”

  “You’ve got a cute kid. Don’t know how you managed it. And a fine wife, in a lot of ways, and I definitely don’t know how you managed that. But they miss you, Whit.”

  “I can’t.” He shook his head. It wobbled awkwardly, his skull loose on its perch. “Just let me go. Tell them you couldn’t find me. Tell them I’m dead. Tell them—”

  Jason put a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, brother. We’ll make it.”

  He nudged Whit forward. That got Whit’s feet moving toward the Plymouth, and, as on the dance floor, he appeared unable to fight the momentum. Jason walked a step behind him and took a snort from his flask. He was about to tap Whit on the shoulder and ask if he wanted any when he heard a man’s voice.

  “Jason Fireson?”

  To his left, from the direction of the street, three men approached. They stopped ten, fifteen paces away. The speaker was in front, a gruff, portly type, a square crammed into a circle. He wore a snap-brim hat and a gray suit. Behind him were two other men, one in a suit and the other, younger, wearing the newest-looking cop uniform Jason had ever seen.

  “Excuse me?” Jason said. The Firesons stopped and turned, Jason’s right hand hidden behind Whit’s back. His shoulders were squared and his feet firmly planted.

  “State police. You’re under arrest.” There was a badge, then a gun. Behind the men a bus moaned its way down the street. The headlights didn’t reveal any other figures in the background.

  “You’ve got the wrong guy,” Jason said, shaking his head. He still held the flask before him with his left hand. An arc light glinted off the steel.

  The men began moving toward them.

  “Jesus, Jason,” Whit croaked.

  A sudden burst of applause from within the gym. Whit and Alice were no longer the most recent losers. Two of the cops’ heads tilted and Jason dropped his flask from his left hand. Before it had even hit the ground he’d unholstered his gun with his right and fired three shots.

  The crowd was still laughing and jeering, the gunshots only so many taps of a snare drum in their delirious little world. Jason put his other hand on Whit’s shoulder and pulled him down as the shots multiplied.

  His fake eyeglasses fell from his nose as he and his brother ducked behind the sedan parked on the grass. The guns paused for breath. He dared to lift his head again and fired twice more. He ducked and glanced at Whit, who despite his red eyes now looked very awake indeed. Another burst of gunfire from the cops, and the shattering of glass, then silence.

  Jason opened the car door and motioned for Whit to crawl in. He followed, crouching out of view, and popped open the glove compartment. It took Whit a second to realize he was expected to reach in and grab the revolver. Jason shifted his gun to his left hand so he could fish out his keys with his right. Then he sat up, blindly fired two rounds out the window, and started the Plymouth with his other hand. Gravel sprayed as he pulled out as fast as he could. The teenagers’ glowing cigarette butts had vanished like fireflies and the lot behind him might as well have been a black wall.

  A shot to his left. People were screaming now; the secret was out. He fired in return.

  Jason hadn’t turned on his headlights and he almost missed the body as he was pulling out. But there it was, to his left, faceup. He slowed down just enough to look at it, see the young face. He knew him. From where? Jesus, from Ma’s kitchen. The tree planter, the skinny former accountant, who could not possibly have been a cop. A badge helplessly dangled out of his jacket pocket.

  And as Jason’s mind raced through his mother’s boarding house, he noticed, too late, more movement to his right. Whit fired twice, the shots echoing mercilessly in the tiny car. Jason hit the accelerator just as the cop was falling down.

  “I got him!” Whit cried. “Oh Jesus, I got him!”

  Jason couldn’t tell if Whit’s voice was panicked or thrilled, but he didn’t have time to ask. The Plymouth’s speed kicked in once it made it to the asphalt. Jason turned his neck like a crazy man to scan in all directions, but there was nothing to see. No roadblock? No backup? He raced through unusually calm Friday-night streets, uttering silent prayers as he ran reds.

  An hour later, they were racing through the kinds of country roads Jason had lived on
during his bootlegging days. But he’d never run any routes around here, so he didn’t know these particular roads. It was cloudy, too, so he could only hope he was headed west, toward the border.

  “You’re going to have to move your family,” Jason said to Whit after a long silence. His adrenaline had faded by then and he spoke calmly. Whit was not nearly so placid; though his dance-marathon experience had him on the verge of narcolepsy, each time his eyes shut he was immediately awakened by the encroaching and nightmarish realization that he had just killed someone. “It won’t be safe for Veronica to stay in Ohio.”

  “Jason,” Whit said, choosing his words carefully, remembering the slap in the face. “There’s no way around it now. I’m in this with you.”

  Jason just kept driving. The night had turned cold but he kept the windows down because Whit smelled so terrible. After another minute Whit said his name again, and Jason abruptly pulled over. He killed the headlights and there was nothing beyond the windshield, no world at all except what the brothers were carrying with them.

  “Just tell me we won’t be arguing the whole time,” Jason said, staring straight ahead. “I swear to God, I can’t take your grumbling much longer.”

  “I won’t argue. I’ll be the model accomplice.”

  “Model apprentice.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Jason turned and finally looked at his brother. He felt a heaviness in his stomach, pulling at him. It was fairly easy to make risky, even dangerous decisions when he was on his own, but it would be so much harder with a brother to protect. Worse, inviting family into the gang would mean inviting introspection, forcing him to take the kind of look at himself that he had studiously avoided. He wished for the hundredth time that Whit had been able to live a quiet, stable life managing Pop’s store, the way Jason had always envisioned. Things had turned out so differently than he’d expected. He didn’t want to think about how much of the blame was his.

  “I’ve tried to protect you from all this,” Jason said. “But I suppose you’ve made it clear that, if left to your own devices, you’ll get yourself killed any day now. So I might as well let it happen on my watch. That way I’ll at least be able to explain to Ma exactly how you got killed, instead of, I don’t know, just stumbling upon your corpse in an alley someplace.”