“Things haven’t turned out well, kitten. This has been a goddamn catastrophe.” He seemed to be addressing his gun, which he was slowly disassembling. He laid the pieces on the table, then used the scouring brush to clean the barrel. His fat fingers moved with surprising dexterity, performing this ritual with a calmness approaching reverence. “I never planned on killing you. I don’t like to kill dames.”
“You don’t … you don’t have to.”
He looked at her. “But I do.” He returned his attention to his quartered and beloved device. “That’s the sad thing. No other way out for ol’ Brickbat. And no payoff. All this work, all this goddamn waiting. Elton dead, the other guys.” He shook his head. “This is why I never tried yaffling before, and I shoulda remembered that. It’s a lesson for me.”
He was essentially unarmed while the gun was in pieces. If she was going to strike him, she had to do it now. Instead, feeling like a failure, she asked, “Why?”
He poured oil onto one of the rags, then rubbed it on the various pieces of disassembled weaponry.
“Because your old man messed up is why. He got himself arrested, you believe that? S’what I get for working with an amateur. Because that’s what he is, kitten: an amateur. He had some connections and I let that make me think he knew things, but he doesn’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
He looked at her again. She saw, from the corner of her eye, that she had smeared blood on her sweater. Not much, but it was certainly there, almost glowing on the white cotton. He hadn’t seemed to notice it yet. She had to keep him talking. She had to act.
“It was all his idea, kitten. An insurance scam. But the dumb suit didn’t read the fine print on his policy, and the company ain’t gonna ante up. On account of you being a known accomplice of the Firefly Brothers. Ain’t that just the kicker? You being Jason’s twist is what’s gonna get you killed. If you’d been just another rich girl, the insurer would be paying the ransom and this’d’ve gone off without a hitch. But because you were slut to a bank robber you’re uninsurable. You’re worthless.” He began reassembling the gun.
It took even more time for Darcy to reassemble the facts he had laid out. They did not yet assume the shape of a coherent whole.
“My father arranged this?” She had long hated him, but something like this she hadn’t thought possible. The world slowly came together, in a sickening way, an even darker place than she had imagined but, alas, one that made its own cruel sense. She willed herself to concentrate, to ignore what Brickbat was saying. She tightened her grip on her weapon.
“Yeah. Badly, too. Last time I work with a goddamn carmaker. And you know his cars are junk? I’ve stolen a few, and they always die on me. Everything dies on me.”
Where was she supposed to aim? His neck? The soft spot of his temple? If she leaned forward, she could reach him. But she would need to stretch. And her hands were so very far away. He would see it coming.
Brickbat peered through the barrel of the gun, assessing his work. He blew into it, then looked again. The gun was nearly whole now, everything but the magazine lying beside it. Pointing the gun to his right— away from Darcy as well as from the two bodies on the floor—he pulled the trigger and it snapped ruthlessly.
“Don’t move.”
Brickbat managed to show little emotion at hearing the judge’s voice. She saw Brickbat’s eyes narrow, a tightening of the skin, and his large head slowly rolled toward his left. The judge had sat up and was aiming the revolver at Brickbat’s chest.
“Didn’t hit you hard enough, I guess.” The unloaded pistol was still in Brickbat’s hand, the magazine within easy reach. The fingertips of Darcy’s right hand were slick with blood. His neck would be too hard to hit; he barely even had one. The face, then. The right temple. What would happen? How would it sound, feel? Could she do this?
Brickbat was reaching for the clip.
“I said, don’t move.”
“I heard you, old man. Go ahead and shoot me with that empty gun.” He snapped the magazine into place. Then he stood up and kicked the judge in the face. The old man’s body lifted into the air, his bent legs straightening until he was stretched to almost his full height before gravity regained control. Then his body folded up again and collapsed into itself, a puddle on the floor.
Brickbat snapped the clip into his gun. The sound of readiness, of inevitability. He was standing a good five feet away from her. She had missed her chance.
“Stupid bastard. You think I hadn’t frisked the doc?” He shook his head at the old man. Darcy didn’t know if the judge was breathing this time. She didn’t care. She herself was breathing twice as fast.
She let her head sag for a moment. She heard Brickbat lightly kick the judge to see if he needed a bullet. Then she stood up and stepped forward and swung.
She realized she was shouting only when she stopped. And she stopped because her blow had found its mark. Not its intended mark, but something. Jesus, had she closed her eyes? She had. She opened them. Her arm was stiff, energy surging through it. Paralyzed with power. Her fingers throbbed from the impact. They were clenched around the wood handle and the glass had vanished inside Brickbat’s raised left forearm. For such a big man, he was fast. They were motionless for a moment, joined together in that violent embrace, and then she saw the blood seep out of his wound. Now he was the one screaming.
He yanked his arm away from hers but the weapon was still embedded there. He reached for the wood with his right hand, but he was holding his gun with it, so he couldn’t pull the blade out. He looked blind with rage and pain. He bit down on his bottom lip as he straightened his right arm and pulled the trigger.
The gun jammed again. He yelled at it: Goddamn gun, fucking jamming, goddamnit. He was staggering in a semicircle, keeping his distance while he shook his gun hand and tried again. Nothing. He looked at the gun, shook it, peered into the barrel, and screamed at it. He shot himself in the head.
Brickbat was staring at her but not seeing her. There was a hole in his forehead, and she looked away. Then she heard him land.
She was breathing even faster now, hugging herself. She spun in a circle. What had happened? She smelled an industrial smoke. The gun had jammed, and then it hadn’t. This wasn’t possible. He had shot himself in the face. He was dead. She looked up and saw the soles of his shoes, the toes pointing up at angles. Near them the judge’s eyes were open and lifeless. Nothing was moving but her.
She ran up the stairs.
There was a small table in the kitchenette and on it a set of keys. She ran out the door and into the night—a deep, quiet darkness. The doctor’s car was an old Chevrolet, and one of the keys worked in the ignition. The engine started and she drove in reverse, too fast, scraping shingles from the side of the house as she pulled out.
Brickbat was dead, yet still she felt pursued. Surely there was someone else. She needed to be free. Was this freedom? Where was she going? She backed into the street and realized the Chevy’s lights weren’t on. She turned them on but nothing happened. Fine, fine, just go. She could see well enough. There were arc lights, a moon. She pressed on the gas. Every movement was more than she meant it to be. The car lunged and her head snapped back. She took a corner too hard, tires squealing. There was a car approaching. Brickbat’s confederates coming to his aid? Whoever they were, they were in her way. Or she was in theirs. Yes, this was the wrong side of the road. The other car honked its horn and she twisted the wheel and the Chevy leaped a sidewalk. She didn’t brake in time.
She was breathing fast but it seemed she was only exhaling. Nothing was reaching her lungs, let alone her brain. She hated herself. She was stronger than this. God, she was hungry. She lifted her head and wondered if she’d been knocked out. Perhaps she was dead. Yes, of course. Why would Brickbat have shot himself? He must have shot 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.
That 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 sho
rt-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.
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