The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers. Thomas Mullen

but I can tell. They missed you before, when you were out doing all that. But now, too.”

      “I’m a lousy brother.”

      “Brothers usually are.”

      “I’m a lousy son, too.”

      “You have your moments.”

      Jason let a grin pierce through his self-loathing. Then it faded. “Look, I know I haven’t been…who you want me to be, but—”

      “It’s not about what I want. We are what we do, Jason. I’ve tried to show you that. I guess I failed at it. But we are what we do, the choices we make.”

      “I know I made some wrong decisions.”

      Pop seemed struck by the admission. This would have been, what, the second month? The third? How long had Jason’s reserve of pride and cockiness held out?

      “So when I get out of here…could I work at the store again? Or do you have a policy against hiring guys with records?”

      Pop smiled. “That policy doesn’t apply to blood relations. And I can always use the cheap labor.”

      And that’s what Jason was after his term ended, cheap labor, the prodigal son returned. Smiles all around. The good feelings lasted a few weeks.

      Eventually Jason got over his guilt at having been a lousy son and he admitted to himself how incredibly bored he was to be back at the store, performing the same tasks he’d done as a schoolboy, standing behind the same counter, making the same idle talk with the same customers. The onset of Pop’s money troubles only made things worse—the stock crash and the new supermarkets undercutting his business, and the debt Pop had rung up investing in real estate just before the crash. Jason was tired of hearing about it, tired of inheriting someone else’s problems. He told himself he had a right to live his own life. So finally, when Weston was working at the store full-time and Whit was in his final year of school, Jason broke the news as delicately as he could. He thanked Pop for taking him back in and told him no hard feelings this time but he was moving in with some friends to try “something new,” something for himself. Pop said he understood, acting as if his son had not broken his heart again.

      But “something new” wound up being something old: bootlegging again. And things didn’t work out quite as Jason had hoped. He would soon do a second stretch in jail for it, but this time there would be no visits from his old man.

      Years later, the resurrected Firefly Brothers were driving just north of Lincoln City to the quiet town of Karpis. Even the most devastated of cities seemed to have at least one gleaming suburb like this, the lawns watered and mowed, the Cadillacs washed and waxed. People out here had heard of the depression but didn’t entirely believe the stories.

      At the edge of town, where a few restaurants and taverns clung to the one narrow road leading north into emptiness, sat the safe house run by Jason’s old bootlegging mentor, Chance McGill. Chance did a little of This and a little of That. He’d been jailed for This during the early twenties, but he was acquitted of That a few years back, and these days he operated his popular restaurant-nightclub, Last Best Chance, with minimal interference. There were bands three nights a week and dancing showgirls twice, and the card playing that went on in back rooms was permitted by the brass buttons as long as they got their take. A veritable House of Seven Gables of the Midwest underworld, Last Best Chance was as sprawling as its owner’s many pursuits; a dance room had been added a few years back, and then an outdoor patio, and then another bar over here, and some rooms for the ladies over there, until the building was a nearly block-long labyrinth of pleasure and deception. Rumor had it that Chance had designed the floor plan to be as confusing as possible should he and his special guests ever need to elude raiding cops.

      Chance and his chatty wife lived on the top floor; also on that floor were several bedrooms that hot boys could stay in, for prices ranging from five bucks to thirty, depending on exactly how much heat was on them. Dillinger had once stayed here, as well as Baby Face Nelson and even Pretty Boy Floyd, far away from his southwestern territory. But no one had doled out more hide-me money than Jason and Whit, until Chance had regretfully told them, back in May, that the volcanically hot Firefly Brothers should start bunking elsewhere.

      Jason and his gang often communicated through Chance, leaving messages about when and where they should regroup. Chance knew anyone worth knowing and never seemed to have trouble locating them when the right person asked.

      Jason idled in front of the building. A bottle-blond zaftig was strolling toward the entrance.

      “Say, doll, do me a favor,” Jason called to her. “Tell Mr. McGill that Officer Rubinsky would like a word. And to bring some smokes.”

      She gave him a look as empty as an alcoholic’s shot glass. Then her heels clacked away. It was burlesque night, and the Firesons were treated to a blast of tarnished horns when she opened the door.

      Two minutes later another brass blast, longer this time because one of the men was holding the door open. A second was beside him, and the third, Chance McGill himself, was holding a box of cigars and a level gaze aimed cautiously at the Pontiac.

      Officer Rubinsky was one of the cops Chance paid protection money to; Chance could see this wasn’t the cop’s wheels.

      “We look like a couple of Syndicate torpedoes,” Whit said under his breath. “Probably scaring the hell out of him.”

      “Good. It’ll make him easier to read.”

      Chance was in his early fifties but had managed to age with the grace of a silent-film star. Usually he moved with a thespian’s confidence, fluidity to every gesture, but now he stepped slowly, as if under water. A thin man, his gray hair was trimmed short and his wrinkles were ironed flat in the neon light. Then his blue eyes lit red.

      “Jason?” He was ten feet from the Pontiac.

      “Not so loud.” Jason grinned. “Tell your loogans you’re okay. And get in—we have a crazy story for you.”

      “You weren’t followed?”

      “Only by the Grim Reaper—he tailed us leaving the cemetery. C’mon, get in.”

      Chance waved off his men and opened the back door. Jason eased off the brake and began driving the calm streets of Karpis.

      “How’s tricks?” Jason asked. Whit had turned halfway in his seat to keep an eye on the restaurateur.

      “Not so good as they are for you two, apparently. Jesus. I even offered a prayer for your eternal souls.”

      “I’m sure our souls appreciate it.”

      “What happened?”

      “Look, Chance,” Jason said. “No one needs to know about the crazy hallucinations you’ve been having. Everyone can just go on mourning the dead Firefly Brothers, got it? They can send us all the prayers they like.”

      “Understood. That Houdini you pulled in Toledo was impressive, boys, but this one is by far the best.”

      “Thanks. And we aren’t going to tell you how we did it, no offense.”

      “I wouldn’t ask.”

      Jason pulled into a small park and turned around to face his passenger as Chance handed out cigars. Jason hadn’t had a smoke since before the cooling boards, and just by biting off the end he saw that Chance knew how to keep his cops happy.

      “Heard anything on Owney?” Jason asked.

      Chance produced a lighter and that produced light. “What kind of anything?”

      “We were supposed to meet him last week in Detroit.” Jason left it at that. He still couldn’t remember if the meeting had occurred, but the fact that the Points North cops had found the full seventy thousand dollars on the brothers meant that they’d never paid Owney his share, so either the meeting hadn’t happened or it had gone very badly indeed.

      “He hasn’t