The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers (18 page)

XI.

S
tories of the Firefly Brothers, John
Dillinger, and Pretty Boy Floyd had inspired a litany of misguided and
maladroit imitators across the land. A handful were successful, their hijinks
mistakenly attributed to one of the more famous outlaws, but most tended to be
as spectacularly unsuccessful as their earlier efforts to find honest work.
In Chillicothe, Ohio, an evicted farmer drove a stolen tractor through the
front entrance of the bank that had foreclosed on his property. He succeeded in
ramming the door down, but in doing so he trapped the vehicle between the brick
walls. He rustled a few hundred from a teller before climbing over his tractor
and sprinting down the street, where he was shot dead by the local sheriff, a
Great War veteran and an expert marksman.
In Dalesville, Illinois, an unemployed accountant who had been conned by a
huckster into buying a “bulletproof” vest made of tin and iron
marched into his local bank, which had been put on alert after the Dillinger
Gang robbed a nearby institution. The overconfident robber had taken his time
looting the vault and, upon exiting, was shot to pieces. Witnesses claimed the
sound of bullets piercing the man’s metallic harness was almost musical,
like coins plinking a pond’s surface as they’re transformed into
wishes.
In Flint, Michigan, two laid-off assembly liners from the nearby Pontiac
plant ignited smoke bombs inside a bank as they made
their entrance. It had been a hot but breezy day, and the smoke funneled in
circles around the men, a miniature smoke devil. One had coughed until he
collapsed, and the other, frantic from blindness and from the sound of his
accomplice gagging, ran headlong into a stone wall and fell unconscious.
Countless getaway drivers shut their engines off during the job, only to find
that they wouldn’t restart; or they decided to parallel park, and
afterward wasted precious seconds freeing their vehicle as the police
surrounded them. Other robbers panicked at the sight of oblivious officers
strolling the sidewalks outside and announced themselves by firing unnecessary
shots through the bank’s windows.
In Liberty, Missouri, four ex-convicts actually would have accomplished their
heist were it not for inconvenient timing: they emerged from the bank only to
find their escape route being closed off for the town’s annual
policemen’s parade. They were enthusiastically apprehended.
A former, excommunicated communist in St. Cloud, Minnesota, was killed by his
own dramatic entrance, firing a shotgun into a bank’s ceiling, whereupon
a five-foot-wide chunk of ornately inscribed plaster dropped twenty feet and
crushed his skull.
And, of course, there were the robbers who succeeded only in locking themselves
in bank vaults. This always brought a smile to Jason’s lips. He liked
knowing that his skill was so extraordinary.
He was left to reflect on this as he sat with Marriner in the stolen Pontiac,
reading a story in the morning edition of the
Sun
about an Estonian
immigrant who had tried to rob a bank the previous day in Lexington, Kentucky,
armed with an antique musket he had stolen from a Civil War museum. The bank
manager had calmly explained that the weapon would not fire, but the
thief’s grasp of English had proved less adept than his grip on the
musket, which he butted into the manager’s forehead after its trigger
indeed refused to budge. The immigrant had been overtaken by heroic bank
customers and was being held on charges of assault, attempted robbery, and
desecration of a historic site.
Jason put down his paper and checked the pocket watch he’d borrowed from Marriner.
It was not yet nine o’clock and they were parked across the street and a
few storefronts down from Third National of Lincoln City. It was the third
morning Jason had studied the bank’s opening
procedures,
the habits of its staff and the security guard. The previous day, wearing fake
eyeglasses and a thin beard, Jason had taken a closer look at the interior by
opening an account with a ten-dollar bill and false identification, both of
which Marriner had provided—the old man was an expert forger. Jason had
been in Third National before, of course, as had Whit, to make deposits for Pop
when they were kids, but that had been years ago. The tellers were new and
Jason didn’t recognize anyone.
“Guard’s older than you,” Jason commented as they watched the
codger enter the bank.
“Imagine that,” Marriner replied. “Miracle he’s still
alive.”
“Morning, Mr. President,” Jason narrated as the staff entered the
building. “And those are the two assistant managers. A maximum of three
tellers.”
The nearest police station was twelve blocks away. Third National sat in the
middle of Taft Street, a wide avenue that cut through the north end of
downtown. Whit and the two rookies Marriner had recruited had spent the past
two days timing various paths out of town.
“So tell me about this bank,” Marriner said.
“Restaurants from Taft and the busier side streets make their deposits
every morning around ten and again in the afternoon before closing. Bank is
flush every other Thursday to cash paychecks for the tire plant on Fourth; other
factories in town do Fridays, so they’re unusual. Big baseball series
this week means the local places are doing decent business. It’s a sweet
pea: there’s only one guard, the cops don’t—”
“That’s not what I meant. Tell me about this bank.”
A pause. “They backed a bunch of loans to my old man when he started
buying up property in ’28. After he opened a second and third grocery, he
was starting to buy up lots in the factory district to build new apartment
buildings, on account of the workers seemed to be making more bread.” He
shook his head. “My old man’s delusions of grandeur were based on
the idea that other people wouldn’t be failures.”
A car started idling behind Jason’s, waiting for him to leave the spot.
Jason waved it on.
“Crash hits, factory cuts its hours, its wages, its men. New supermarkets
open nearby and undercut the family stores. Then the cash-poor factories start
paying in scrip, meaning the stores have to accept scrip and
cross their fingers that the factory gets its money soon
so it can pay ’em back. Weeks roll by, my old man’s pulling his
hair out. Thought I’d told you all this.”
“I’m remembering.”
“My old man can’t meet the mortgages for all this worthless
property, can’t meet the mortgage for his own home, can’t even buy
new inventory for his stores. Asks his suppliers to stretch him. Begs the banks
to let the mortgages float for a bit, or take the scrip, but they won’t
budge on either score. Knocks on the factory owners’ doors, raises hell.
Goes to one of his real-estate partners, Garrett Jones, begs him for a loan.
Jones was a retired bank man, lived well and liked to dabble, and somehow he
and Pop had met a few years back. They’d—”
“This Jones have a relation to Third National by any chance?”
Jason nodded. “Used to run it, yes. Anyway, Jones was retired by then,
but he and my old man had gone in on most of the real-estate moves together,
Pop borrowing like crazy, Jones throwing in, too, but it wasn’t such a
hard shake for him since he was loaded anyway. When things got tough, Pop thought
Jones would come through for him, help him with some payments, or maybe twist
some arms at the bank. But Jones wasn’t inclined to throw good money
after bad, and he said so. One night Pop stops by Jones’s place, and
maybe Pop had had a few drinks, and after he’d begged and pleaded again,
maybe he made some threats that Mrs. Jones overheard. The next night, while
Mrs. Jones is out playing bridge, her husband either shoots himself in the head
or gets murdered in his den, depending on your view of human nature.”
“And this is all the bank’s fault?”
Jason breathed. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you aren’t not saying it.”
“True. I’m not not saying it.”
“And Whit believes it.”
“With every fiber of his being. Whit was the baby of the family, so for
some reason Pop didn’t ride him like he did me and Wes. Whit idolized
him, so he took things the hardest. We’ll have to keep an eye on him
tomorrow. He’ll be tempted to blow up the building on the way out.”
“You remember I wanted to put blanks in his gun the first time?”
“I remember.”
“You remember I was right?”
“Did I ever fail to listen to you again?”
The old-timer smiled. “I’ll say this for you, Jason Fireson: you
never make the same mistake twice.”
“That’s because there are so many others to get around to.”
Customers started entering the bank at nine o’clock.
With the little money Marriner had left to his name, he had rented two rooms in
a motel across the river, a base of operations for these few days of planning.
The Firefly Brothers would hit Third National tomorrow morning, escape,
regroup, then hit a smaller but equally attractive bank in Hudson Heights, a
short drive south, near the Kentucky and Indiana borders. It was the best way
to make a big score before the cops caught on that the Firefly Brothers were
still out there. With the combined take and just a small crew to split it with,
Jason had told his brother, they could find the girls and cash out of this
increasingly dangerous career, head west and figure out a way to reinvent
themselves one last time.
Jason had never pulled two endeavors in one day, but hell, he could use a
challenge.
They sat there watching the bank, counting foot traffic.
“We were just a working family trying to move up, whatever that means.
And then trying to get higher still. Like I said, delusions of grandeur.”
“American dream.”
“Same thing.”
Across the street, a portly beat cop walked past the bank at 9:25, exactly when
he had the past two days. Ten more minutes and they’d seen all they
needed to.
“One thing I always wanted to ask you. About your old man.”
“Go ahead.” He knew what was coming.
“Do you think he did it?”
“No.” He dead-eyed Marriner. “You ask Whit that question,
he’s likely to shoot you.”
The next morning they woke at sunrise. The blinds on the motel windows were
just beginning to glow as they dressed and donned their bulletproof
vests. They methodically rechecked their weapons, half
listening to Marriner’s radio for news of a downtown accident or anything
that might affect their plans. One last time, they had the rookies recite their
instructions. By the time the Firefly Brothers stepped outside, the sun was
above the trees and so hot it seemed to be aimed directly at them.

THE SECOND DEATH
OF THE
FIREFLY BROTHERS

Already the stories were coming to life
.
When news got around that the Fireson family had not yet held a funeral or a
memorial service, that set ablaze the public’s appetite for fantastic
stories. More people claimed to have spotted the brothers, despite their
alleged demise. They were seen robbing banks, holding up gas stations, saving
the elderly from burning buildings. They were impregnating ex-lovers, coaxing
kittens from flimsy branches, delivering impromptu sermons at Congregationalist
services. They’d sent death threats to Republican governors and donated
food to Hoovervilles. They were beating communist insurgents, wooing widows,
helping crippled war veterans carry their groceries
.
It was Dillinger all over again. He’d been sighted in all forty-eight
states, Canada, Mexico, Cuba, England, and even Sicily, all since the day he
was shot dead by federal agents while leaving a Chicago movie house.
Dillinger’s sister, after viewing the somewhat unfamiliar body in a
police morgue (her brother had recently undergone plastic surgery, bad dye
jobs, and other degradations), insisted that it wasn’t the Johnnie she
knew and loved, sparking a fury of conspiracy theories and tall tales. The
authorities had quickly arranged for a second viewing, and only after she had
been shown certain scars and birthmarks did she recant. By then it was too
late; the stories were out
.
People were equally suspicious about the reports of the Firefly
Brothers’
deaths. Everywhere I went,
people were questioning reality. You really think some country cops could just
stumble upon the great Firefly Brothers that way? the elevator operator in my
building said with a laugh. If the Firesons had escaped from so many stakeouts
and ambushes before, why would this one be any different? the shoeshine boy
asked. Soon people were saying that the Points North cops had lost the bodies;
it was never in the papers, but the rumor was everywhere, whispered and then
shouted. There was speculation that those dead guys in the photograph
weren’t really Jason and Whit but some bums that J. Edgar Hoover had
rounded up, nothing but a government ploy to convince us that Washington was
still in control. “What should you believe anymore?” people would
say to me with a shrug
.
The stories only grew stronger after the dead Firefly Brothers were spotted
robbing a bank in their hometown
.