Thomas Mullen - The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers

“You can pick that back up, sir,” the leader had told the farmer as he walked past. “We’re not here for your money, just the bank’s. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

What else had he said? She tried to remember as the dirt road became a bit less accommodating and she tightened her grip. “I’m going to have to ask you for that combination, Mr. President.” And “All righty, boys, we’re down to a minute” and “I really like those shoes, did you buy them in town?” and “Get a chair for that lady over there, she looks faint” and, finally, joyously, “All righty, you and you and you and”—the finger pretending to pick her arbitrarily, even though the slight grin belied any such thing—“ you, you’ll need to step outside with us.” Darcy knew the difference between fate and desire, thank you.

But that was all he’d said. How many words was that in total? Fifty? Seventy, perhaps? She wondered how many thousands of dollars they had taken with them in those Gladstone bags, how many bills each of his words had brought in. A man like that could talk in gold. She only wanted to hear him say something more.

The robbers had silently corralled the hostages in the front of the bank lobby and marched them outside, where Darcy noticed the phalanx of police officers standing helplessly on the sidewalk. This was when she first realized that she was in some modicum of danger. Not from this dapper robber and his assistants—the man positively exuded calm—but from the surely terrified police and their weapons. Her stomach tightened.

She was standing on the Buick’s running board when one of the officers called upon the robbers to halt and surrender. The thieves laughed and informed him that any attempt to intervene could cost the lives of these nice hostages. Alarming words indeed, but she looked at the officers and saw their meek expressions, as if they knew there was no point in trying to stop the crooks and had spoken up only for appearance’s sake.

“They’re going to kill us!” the man who had vomited now screamed to his fellow hostages as they rocketed through the woods west of town. The police Fords were long gone, left behind by the speeding Buick. Given her background, Darcy knew enough about cars to be certain that this did not have a typical Buick engine beneath its hood. And she of course had noticed when one of the robbers in the backseat rolled down a window and threw what looked like tacks and roofing nails onto the road to delay their pursuers. She didn’t know how long they’d been driving—one minute? ten? so hard to judge when the pace of your heart has changed—but it was long enough to exhaust the police. Initially, there had been two cars full of bank robbers (the other, also a Buick, had been similarly upholstered with four hostages); she didn’t know if the second had been apprehended or if it had fled in a different direction.

The dirt road smoothed out again, and the bandits decreased their speed from reckless to very fast. They had been driving through woods—the multicolored confetti of oaks and elms showering them as acorns skittered beneath the wheels—but now the forest opened before them, revealing wide green fields interspersed with farmland. Against these colors the clear sky looked richer than usual.

“They’re going to kill us!” the man repeated. His heavy beard and mustache were greasy, Darcy remembered. “We’ve seen their faces! They won’t let us live!”

“We all saw their faces!” Darcy shut him up. Really. “The bank was full of people, and they didn’t kill any of them !” Indeed, the thieves hadn’t hurt anyone, hadn’t pulled a trigger.

“I know how these things work!” the man insisted. “There was a bank robbery in South Bend a month ago, and they killed the two people they took with them! I say we let go now and take our chances in the woods!”

The prayer’s voice had only grown louder.

“That wasn’t the Firefly Brothers in South Bend!” replied the man behind Darcy. “That was some other gang! And I’m not letting go at this speed!”

As if on cue, the Buick began to slow down as it approached a crossing with another country road, where an empty car was waiting. The landscape was flat and deserted, occasional silos the only dark scratches on the horizon.

“I’m going to let go and run for it!” the man said, shifting his gaze among the three of them to enlist their participation. Then his fingers uncoiled and he was gone. Darcy turned and saw his body rolling on the ground, dirt and pebbles rising in a cloud.

The Buick parked beside the other car.

“Everybody back up three paces!” commanded a deep voice. Once the hostages had obeyed—each of them flexing tight fingers finally released from their death grips—the doors opened. One of the robbers sprinted back toward the escaped hostage, who was slowly attempting to rise, moaning.

Three other men exited the car.

“Hope that wasn’t too rocky of a ride,” the gang leader said to the hostages, his eyes lingering on Darcy. A long, double-handled gun dangled like an afterthought from his right hand. With his jacket open, Darcy also saw that he had a pistol in a shoulder holster. “The roads out here leave something to be desired.”

“Please don’t hurt us,” begged the woman who’d been praying.

“Why would we do a thing like that? You’ve served your purpose, and did a particularly good job of it, I might add. Now, we are going to have to tie you and you”—he pointed to the other man—“to this post here, but the cops will find you soon enough. And it’s a nice warm day—it’ll be good to get some air.”

As one of the robbers escorted the wounded escapee back to the parked cars, the rest of the gang busily moved packages, bags, weapons, and gasoline cans from the Buick into the other car, a black Pontiac. They all wore gloves, which struck Darcy as odd, considering that none of their faces were masked.

“So you’re the Firefly Brothers?” Darcy asked the ringleader. “That’s what they call you?”

He looked at her appraisingly, as if surprised her voice wasn’t quivering. Perhaps he preferred quiverers? She didn’t think so.

“They call us a lot of things. But we’ll take that one over some of the others.”

She had heard of them. They were making some noise in the lesser parts of the Midwest, though not in her hometown of Chicago, where the Syndicate held something of a monopoly on crime—or perhaps only an oligopoly, now that Capone was in jail. The papers must not have run any photographs, though. Surely she wouldn’t have been able to blithely flip past a picture of this face.

“So why am I not being tied up with them?” she asked him as two of the robbers began tying the other hostages’ wrists to the post of a collapsing fence.

“We still need some company for a bit longer, if you don’t mind,” the ringleader told her. “But don’t worry, this time you can sit inside with us. Won’t be long.”

“So do you have a name, or is it just Firefly Brother Number One?”

“Better not let my brother hear you say that—he’ll take offense. My name’s Jason. And you are…?”

“Darcy Windham.”

“You aren’t related to—”

“He’s my father.”

“My, my. An automotive heiress.” He tipped his fedora. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I’m afraid I’m not terribly close to my old man, so don’t ask me for any free cars.”

“I’ve never had trouble finding free cars. You aren’t fond of your old man?”

“Well, he did name an axle after me, but that’s about the extent of his familial affections.”

Jason smiled. “It’s a form of immortality.”

“Yes, a rather greasy one.”