The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers by Thomas Mullen Page A

your glass right now. You
can’t take the Irish out of the Irishman.”
Jason offered his usual disarming smile when he said that, and his
uncomprehending little brothers smiled along with him, as they always did. Then
Pop’s fist struck the table and their glasses danced.
“I did not raise a family of criminals!”
Things got worse from there. First Pop stood and then so did Jason. His
brothers’ chairs slowly backed away, disappearing into the margins. He
remembered pointed fingers on both sides, and then fists. He was tired of being
told what to do. He was young and proud of himself and stupid, yes, he saw that
now. But not then. Then he was yelling and shouting and Ma was telling them to
stop, and when it ended Pop told him he was no longer welcome in their house.
Fine, Jason thought, trying to convince himself that’s what he’d
wanted all along.
He still remembered that line, a family of criminals . He would think of
it years later, at Pop’s trial.
Another of Pop’s lines: You’re better than these people .
Jason remembered that one, too, voiced by his old man during their first
conversation in a prison visiting room. At the age of twenty-one, Jason had
been collared. Chance McGill paid his bail, and Jason spentmost of his pretrial time with his new associates, which
did not go over well at home. He had told his family that everything would be
fine, it was all a mistake, but the look in his mother’s eyes when
he’d pleaded as McGill recommended—guilty, a plea bargain, a weaker
sentence for the good of the organization—was something he would always
remember. He got ten months, with a chance to be out in eight.
He had been surprised on that first Sunday to be told he had a solo visitor.
He’d figured his mother would have come with his brothers, that maybe she
would have been able to coax Pop as well. But when he walked into the large
cinder-block room, prisoners and visitors facing off across six long wooden
tables like poker players without cards, he saw, in the back corner, Patrick
Fireson sitting alone.
They hadn’t spoken much over the past two years. Pop had made his views
clear and Jason hadn’t seen why he should subject himself to such
haranguing ever again. So when he saw Pop sitting there he wondered if he could
tell the guard that he wasn’t interested in visiting with this particular
gentleman. But it was a three-hour drive for the old man—Jason had been
caught and tried in Indiana—and Jason didn’t want to send Pop back
thinking his son didn’t have the guts to look him in the eye.
He made it to the table and Pop extended a hand. They shook, which felt formal
and strange, then he sat. Pop asked how he was doing.
Jason shrugged. “How are Ma and the boys?”
“They’re fine. They wanted to come, too, but I thought I should
come alone this one time.” Jason didn’t say anything as Pop looked
around. “You know, I’ve worked awfully hard in the one life
I’ve been given. Built a strong business, got a good house for my family.
And you chose this instead.”
“This wasn’t exactly what I was choosing, Pop.”
“You knew the risks.”
Jason reminded himself that he would have a week, at least, until he could
entertain another visitor. That meant one week to replay this conversation in
his mind, so he should try, despite the difficulties and temptations, to play
it well the first time.
“I guess I made some mistakes, Pop.”
“Yes. I guess you did.”
“I should have driven faster that one
time,” he said, grinning. Pop’s face tightened.
“I’m so glad you have your sense of humor. That should make the
months fly by.”
“Did you drive all this way just to tell me how I messed up? The judge
already told me that. And the prosecutor, and the cops, and half the guys in
this room, to be honest.”
“Yeah, what about these guys?” Pop looked around again.
“I’ve been thinking about them, studying them a bit as I waited for
you. You know, when you’re a parent you